I have had to return to the potato fields
After absorbing the irregular energy of
Criss-crossed Polke bulbs
Experienced within the confines of
Space
Only now
Seen through the eyes of Van Gogh
This cannot be overlooked:
The potato eaters in the potato house!
Their hardened views burn through the opaque light
Their boney knuckles reflecting the spuddy nobs
That Earth so nonchalantly delivers
Yet in this confined air
Where hope and despair are a marrying pair
Like a hard alloy moulded to an icebreaker's bow
The human spirit defied being crushed
Today it unworms those who have never tilled
How could they?
However, we do work within different confines
With Potato Planes jetting potatoes
Across the continents
'Em tubers barely know the land where they'll be eaten
And our borders, our confines are now defined
By the carry-on template
An ingenious device that
Lets every passenger carry only so many potatoes
Above his perfumed head
The Earth and the pitchfork have not a worry
Their laborious love has
Long been forgotten in the enclosure of the plains.
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