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Hail, tatws, or batatis,
   Kartoffel, pomme de terre,
Potato, proud iam satis
   Of kitchens everywhere!

Round, oval, pink-flushed, pearly,
   Boiled, jacket, mashed, or roast,
Both maincrop and first early
   Charm taste-buds coast to coast,

Why bother with snails’ bodies
    Or frogs' legs aux fines herbes
When ‘deep-fried chips with cod’ is,
    The French admit, superbe ?

Though sold dirt-cheap the dozen
    And, strange to say, mere clone
You’re still, dread nightshade’s cousin,
    Deservedly much grown.

So, gardeners, don’t blunder,
   Plant lots of rows next March
In case you lack that wonder
   Encapsulated starch!