Neo-neocon, an old friend of many years, discovered a peculiar but seemingly indispensable kitchen aid: the Tater Mitt. A poet at heart, she bemoans that this clever invention does not rise to the level of poetry like many of her other kitchen items.
As evening dawns, her eyes behold
The eyes of countless spuds heaped high
Their leathered skin so soiled and cold
As evening feasttime e’r grows nigh
All hope is lost, the hungry crowd
With grumbling stomachs surly sit
The trembling chef, no longer proud,
From cavern’d drawer, the dreaded mitt.
She gazes at the grizzled mitt,
With roughened palms, a ghastly green,
Now grasps the soiled spud which sits
With icy eyes and waxy sheen.
She rubs, she rubs, in frenzied rush
As feebled hope springs forth to wit
The shredded skin reveals the flesh,
All hail the glorious Tater Mitt!
