Baked Potato Poem by Wayne Wickham

One bright and rainy day,
In the middle of the month of May,
A purple potato lay
Too long out in the sun.

There he became thoroughly caked
In the buttery wake
And was soon half-baked
Before he decided to leave.

But as we all know,
Or as this poem goes,
There are no legs on a potato,
Just eyes.

So all he could do was see,
And he looked straight at me,
Then a cry sprang from he,
As I ate him.

Ed Poet
©4-2-94