A potato gets angry if you boil it too long.
It falls apart as everything’s wrong.
When you fork it, you’d want a spoon,
It doesn’t hold together like the earth or the moon.
A mad potato is feared on the plate,
The carrots and onions rue their fate.
Once a potato, when it got mad,
Jumped off the plate, which made me sad.
It stole my knife and threatened the milk,
Which escaped the glass, slithering like silk.
This armed potato stabbed my cup,
Porcelain screech made the cat tense up.
Ramming the knife into my loaf of bread,
I had to declare the bread stone dead.
That homicidal potato, in a mad rage,
Ran off the table to the horror of the sage.
Hitting the ground it shattered into mash,
A quiet, angry thud, no bang or crash.
An angry tater caused all this fuss,
Frightened milk and an upset puss.
Not a single dry eye when the bread was buried,
An eternal scratch that the cup always carried.
Don’t boil potatoes a second too long,
You might have to compose a sad song.