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Raised by the spadeful from primordial mud
Potatoes are the food of lowly folk.
The poor man feasts upon the humble spud
Leaving the toff to stuff his artichoke.
Restaurateurs will try to up its game
By serving it in menus condescending
But I think taters oughter stay the same;
What isn’t broken never needed mending.
While gastronomic gurus mutter on
About Lyonnaises, Dauphinoises et alia
It’s fun to dab a knob of butter on
The ones resembling bums or genitalia
Or, like a London cabbie, add a dash
Of liquor to a plate of pie and mash.