‘Give props to the freedom tater,’
Says A. Pushkin verse crusader:
‘A paper rapper full of starch
Wilt ne’er escape the Ides of March.
This earth-born russet heals the ill
With his Albigensian quill.
While old school Cathars chew the cud,
The Inquisition fries a spud!
Potato bards have many eyes
To see beyond the world of lies.
New Innocents use pins and worse
To punish independent verse.
Like bluecoat glutes sprouting Sioux perdition,
It’s hard to grin when you’re A. Pincushion.’
