Can I count the ways I love thee?
Oh brown skinned delight.
Always so right.
Cut straight, cut round,
yet you make not a sound,
as I slice, and dice, and mash.
So different each time,
a flavour sublime.
I hardly need add to your delicate taste.
You don’t come in a box,
may taste good with fox?
But, on your own you’re just fine.
My rotund little friend,
favourite meal ‘til the end.
How I love a good baked potato…
(… occasionally with cheese)
YOU ARE READING
Love's Bitter Flow
PoetryA collection of verse, including a poem which is also a Drabble (100 words) with Mythic Greek influence, and followed by humour, horror and fantasy in varying doses as my entry for the 2012 Atty Awards
