Sprouting out from the dank, old sod, you grew,
The babe of nurturing Mother Nature,
A starchiness that makes hearts feel anew,
Tawny brown hues complete its portraiture.
Not exclusive to the Irish people,
The rich culinary necessity,
Restaurants the church and you: the steeple,
The frying contributes to obesity.
O potato, we are analogous,
Our somber eyes tell tales of maturation,
Differences not seen with analysis,
We are round with a bland conformation.
But tater, your beauty has a luster,
That leaves my unsightliness flustered.
Emily Williams ’18 || Online Content Editor