To a Sinister Potato
O vast earth-apple, waiting to be fried,
Of all lifeās starers the most many-eyed,
What furtive purpose hatched you long ago
In Indiana or in Idaho?In Indiana and in Idaho
Snug underground, the great potatoes grow,
Puffed up with secret paranoias unguessed
By all the duped and starch-fed Middle West.Like coiled-up springs or like a will-to-power,
The fat and earthy lurkers bide their hour,
The silent watchers of our raucous show
In Indiana or in Idaho.āThey think us dull, a food and not a flower.
Wait! Weāll outshine all roses in our hour.
Not wholesomeness by mania swells us so
In Indiana and in Idaho.āIn each Kiwanis Club on every plate,
So bland and health exuding do we wait
That Indiana never, never knows
How much we envy stars and hate the rose.āSome doom will strike (as all potatoes know)
When-once too often mashed in Idaho-
From its cocoon the drabbest of earthās powers
Rises and is a star.
And shines.
And lours.
-By Peter Viereck