Potato blood

Potato farmer is what I am,

No cattle or corn, berries or yam.

I eat potatoes, always have,

I know how to slice and dice or halve.

If you halved me, spilled my blood,

You’d be faced with a scent of spud.

Potato blood is what flows in me:

The outflow of when I scrape my knee,

Put it on a pan with oil and salt,

You get slices with only one fault,

Tasty and moist but heart attack prone.

Due to what I have always grown.

Potato blood in my potated veins,

I have green hair and I like plains.

I grow well even if it’s quite cold,

I like the sun but I do not like mold.

Potato for me is love distilled,

Feeds you for life if you’re not unskilled.

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