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.