Potato Bug Exterminators
During the summer of 1883 we were walking along past a large field of
potatoes in North Oxford, where we beheld the strange spectacle of a
pair of bipeds drilling their offspring to march up one potato row and
down the other, so as to annihilate the enemy, who had assembled in
vast armies, dressed in yellow garments, and who were committing
fearful depredations on the fruits of the husbandmen, until the valuable
auxilliary forces rushed to the rescue of the farmer, o'erwhelming the
enemy and with one fell swoop, bringing on them consternation and
ruin dire. It appears that the foe, or their progenitors,
had been citizens of Colordo in the far West. And that,
having conquered all before them, they sought another
World to conquer here.
When we do trace out nature's laws,
And view effects, and muse on cause,
For the future there's great hope
If we our eyes do only ope.
With joy they will often glisten,
If to truth one doth but listen ;
But people often turn deaf ear
And what is useful will not hear.
Now for a minute, lend your luggs [sic],
Our theme, it is potato bugs.
Just buy a pair of young peafowl,
Their voice may be like to screech owl,
But soon as the potato shows
You there will find the peafowl goes,
Up one row and down the other
Like loving sister with brother.
And you will find that down their muggs
Have disappeared potato bugs,
Theres no more need of Paris green
For they will keep potatoes clean.
And faithful they will work all day,
For to them 'tis gay sport and play ;
No more you need their voice bewail,
But admire beauties of the tail.
poem by James McIntyre
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Related quotes
One Potato
One potato, two potato
three potato four.
We need some potatoes
to help feed the poor.
Too many hungry babes
are being born today.
When their mother's milk runs dry
they'll have to find a way
to keep their bellies full.
No time for play.
One potato, two potato,
three potato, four.
You say into each life
a little rain must pour?
I say the rain's that's falling
are tears from the eyes
that run down children's faces
from hunger pains and cries
that elude the ears of rich ones
that never ever buys
potatoes for them all.
poem by Edwina Reizer
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The 'Potato' Poem
I love potatoes chopped up into chunky chips.
I love spicy potato wedges, served up with dips.
I love potato slices which have been fried in a pan:
Of sautéed potatoes, I am the world's biggest fan.
I love potatoes which have been pummelled and bashed
With butter and milk to make a real light, fluffy mash.
Jacket potatoes, I find a bit dry, but with a nice filling
Such as chilli, to give them a try, I am more willing.
With breakfast, I love hash browns or potato cakes,
And I love potatoes mixed up with leeks in a bake.
Crispy, golden potatoes, served up with Sunday roast
Are among the kinds of potato which I love the most.
Mixed in soups and casseroles, I love potatoes diced.
On top on minced beef hotpot, I love potatoes sliced.
Fluffy potato stuffed inside a crispy potato croquette
Is also rather nice, and, for me, it is another safe bet.
I love potatoes cut into crisps: the slices, wafer thin,
And, as a starter, I simply love loaded potato skins:
I do adore a delicious dish of Bombay potato curry:
For me, it is a taste which I won't forget in a hurry.
I like potatoes diced up with creamy mayonnaise,
Served up with salad on really hot summer days.
But I don't like potatoes which have been boiled:
From potatoes, cooked this way, in horror, I recoil.
poem by Angela Wybrow
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Meat And Potato Man
meat and potato man
I like my steak well done, my taters fried
Football games on monday night
Its just who i am
A meat and potato man
I like my coffee black
Oltv shows
My women hot and my beer ice cold
Its just who i am
A meat and potato man
I dont like caviar, sushi bars,
The irs or phony stars
Im a haggard fan
A meat and potato man
I like my fishinholes, lightninbugs
Flatt nscruggs, and my womans love
Its just who i am
A meat and potato man
I like my wrangler jeans, cowboy boots
Cornbread and beans and country roots
Its just who i am
A meat and potato man
I dont like politics, hypocrites
Folks with poodles dressed like kids
Im a hounddog fan
A meat and potato manyeah, thats what i am,
A meat and potato man
song performed by by Alan Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Meat & Potato Man
Meat and potato man
I like my steak well done, my taters fried
Football games on monday night
Its just who I am
A meat and potato man
I like my coffee black
Oltv shows
My women hot and my beer ice cold
Its just who I am
A meat and potato man
I dont like caviar, sushi bars,
The irs or phony stars
Im a haggard fan
A meat and potato man
I like my fishinholes, lightninbugs
Flatt nscruggs, and my womans love
Its just who I am
A meat and potato man
I like my wrangler jeans, cowboy boots
Cornbread and beans and country roots
Its just who I am
A meat and potato man
I dont like politics, hypocrites
Folks with poodles dressed like kids
Im a hounddog fan
A meat and potato manyeah, thats what I am,
A meat and potato man
song performed by by Alan Jackson
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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A Modern Day Miracle
Where could you find an example
of true faith in the twentieth century?
‘Faith Like Potatoes’ to plant
in El Nino, in drought, in dust
a never grown before potato crop?
Angus Buchan, a farmer, in Durban
South Africa declared before 35,000
“To hell with El Nino! We are going
to plant this year! And we are going
to plant potatoes.” Fool or Man of Faith?
The Wisdom Of The Modern World
Scientists warned farmers not to plant!
“Do not plant this season unless
you have irrigation.” Angus had none!
Planting planting potatoes in dust
would be a massive massive risk!
It would require a miracle!
Did Angus expect a miracle?
Or was he an experienced potato farmer?
Angus was a maize and cattle farmer!
He had never grown potatoes!
No farmer could grow potatoes in drought!
Not in drought without irrigation!
But all farmers and men of faith
know a crop, a harvest is grown,
from a seed, a seed of planted faith.
Angus prayed and prayed
during the planting and he knew;
in his heart that the Lord;
wanted him to plant potatoes.
Angus expected a modern day miracle from God!
God has complained men lack faith!
To dream their dreams large enough!
Angus planted potatoes in dust on his farm in drought!
Without irrigation without water on his farm in faith!
Angus hired two extra farms, planted potatoes in their dust!
If the potato crop failed, Angus would loose everything!
“Faith is the substance of things hoped for,
the evidence of things not yet seen.” Hebrews 11: 1.
Potatoes grow under the ground
and are not seen until the harvest!
Angus planted in faith; reaped a miracle of faith!
“because the righteous one will live by reason of faith.” Galatians 3: 11.
“The condition for a miracle is difficulty,
however the condition for a great miracle
is not difficulty, but impossibility.” Angus Buchan
“Seek and you shall find knock
and the door shall be opened to you.”
poem by Terence George Craddock
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One More Less Lonely Potato
One more less lonely potato left inside of the fridge to cool of
So that doesn’t get soggy
Because the heat might spoil that lonely potato
And that lonely potato needs a friend anyway
poem by Aldo Kraas
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Potato
My love is a potato
Crude with piggy black eyes
Slit in the side and soiled by sod
My love is the rough handled skin
That follows the relentless storm
The tempestous waves
That raged and rent its first soft form
My love is a potato
The first and almost last known outcast
In a jungle school
His head was wedged like a spud
Mounted on a sinew of neck and bristle
His face sunken into flesh
His eyes two dark slits of piggy black lust
That lit up like a fool
I left him standing at the gate, after school!
My love is a potato after the mash and the kill
And the spill of the innocent milk of the martyr
The final slab of the butter
My love is a potato
Not quite a heart
Battered down
And worn
But after the storm
A sweetness and softening
And love is born!
yvette smith march 09
poem by Yvette Smith
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Carcinogenic Potato Chips...by talile ali
me and my dad
we use to walk
about the town when he
should be at work
and me in school
eating potato chips
and drinking soda pops
talking and walking
and walking and talking
i always wondered why
my dad never took me back to the
school house where i ran away
so that i could be with my daddy
now i hear that chips are filled
with alcolids
500 times more carcinogenic than
cigarettes
now i have prostate cancer
and i may pass away
my love is scared to death
it has to be that way
could i blame society
for allowing this to be
carcinogenic potato chips
could be the death of me
how good things are so often
turned into bits of insanity
and all of this and heaven
so to reign on me
Copyright © 2009
poem by Talile Ali
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Tender Buttons [Apple]
APPLE
Apple plum, carpet steak, seed clam, colored wine, calm seen, cold cream, best shake, potato, potato and no no gold work with pet, a green seen is called bake and change sweet is bready, a little piece a little piece please.
A little piece please. Cane again to the presupposed and ready eucalyptus tree, count out sherry and ripe plates and little corners of a kind of ham. This is use.
poem by Gertrude Stein
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Sweet Potato Pie
Oh lord I feel fine today
Im walking on cloud nine today
Im over that line today
Happiness is finally mine today
I guess Im just a lucky guy
And Im prepared to tell you why
Its strictly on account of my
Sweet potato pie
Im the fellow that she loves the most
The main reason why she left the coast
Shes my little girlziña
That much hotter that a jalapeo
Tender like a night in june
Sweeter than a honeymoon
Brighter than a silver spoon
Just as crazy as a loon
Softer than a lullabye
Deeper than the midnight sky
Soulful as a babys cry
My sweet potato pie
I used to see her around the neighborhood
I wonder how she grew up so good
She belonged to freddy and he was bad
And I never was ready to make him mad
Im glad I had to wait awhile
A little bit too juvenile
I needed to refine my style
A silk suit and a crocodile smile
So let the whole damn world go by
cause I just want to testify
From now on its me and my
Sweet potato pie
song performed by by James Taylor
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Dropped Like a Hot Potato
I had the fear in me stopped.
Dropped like a hot potato.
I got tired of being unhappy.
And strapped with available nonsense,
On my back.
I've long asked God to deliver me from that.
I had the fear in me stopped.
Dropped like a hot potato.
Without one regret of being burned.
Or which emotion I dealt with it.
I was not going to allow it to sit.
And nourish on me as if a leech!
I've long asked God to deliver me from that.
I had been whipped into doubt and confusion.
No one had to tell me I was crazed.
I was in the affirmation stage.
I had the fear in me stopped.
And dropped like a hot potato.
And today...
Nothing gets dropped.
Since the fear in me stopped.
To let go of an experience,
That may be too precious to go wasted!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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Each Morning
Morning and evening, the sun
Has seen the spectacle of carpets
That are possessed by the world
In union and chanting of songs that distress,
Managers of health stretch their necks
With fervor of the polite world.
The apples and oranges of an era in the rise
Enchant the Minneapolis
We call the religion of the orchards.
Each morning has a reposing belief
That once again an evening shall arise
From the sun as it wets the real earth
Of its potatoes.
One apple and one potato is enough
For the world's religion.
poem by Naveed Akram
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Soccer
Soccer
Have you ever been on a soccer field?
Well if you haven't it’s the m amazing thing
It’s like being in heaven but on grass
When the grass is just cut and the potato bugs are jumping in the air it gives you energy to have fun
And if you have been on a field then you know how the freshly cut grass
stings your nose and enlightens your heart to give you extra strength to
play soccer harder than you ever have in your life. That is what it’s like being on a soccer field!
By: Isaiah Bess
poem by Isaiah Bess
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Banana Soup
If juice can be extracted from a potato,
Like a tomato or carrot...
Why can't that happen to a banana?
Although it can be argued that potato juice,
Can be heated and called soup.
Banana soup doesn't sound too appealing.
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Field Of Mortality
The Field of Mortality
On a field, not far from here, I see millions of lit candles in long rows,
but only at night; in daylight it is a potato patch. A man, you may call
him god if you like, walks among the candles every so often he stops
and with his thumb and index finger snuffs out light; the skin on his
fingers are corned from this arduous work. Behind him new candles
spring up, sometimes he turns and go back waste some of them too.
He is heading for the part where the candles have been burned out,
only the wick flickers. He uses he thumb to bump them off; a spiral of
grey smoke in still air. He is old as time, sometimes he misses candles
that keep on burning, although they have no wick. As dawn begins,
behind the easterly mountain, the field of mortality turns into a potato
patch again, where an old man is harvesting spuds.
poem by Oskar Hansen
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Song Of The South
Written by bob mcdill
Chorus
Song, song of the south.
Sweet potato pie and I shut my mouth.
Gone, gone with the wind.
There aint nobody looking back again.
Cotton on the roadside, cotton in the ditch.
We all picked the cotton but we never got rich.
Daddy was a veteran, a southern democrat.
They oughta get a rich man to vote like that.
Sing it...
Chorus
Well somebody told us wall street fell
But we were so poor that we couldnt tell.
Cotton was short and the weeds were tall
But mr. roosevelts a gonna save us all.
Well momma got sick and daddy got down.
The county got the farm and they moved to town.
Pappa got a job with the tva
He bought a washing machine and then a chevrolet.
Sing it...
Chorus
Play it...
Sing it...
Chorus
Song, song of the south...
Gone, gone with the wind...
Song, song of the south.
Sweet potato pie and I shut my mouth.
Song, song of the south.
Sweet potato pie and I shut my mouth.
Sing it...
Chorus 2x
song performed by by Alabama
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Fury Of Cooks
Herbs, garlic,
cheese, please let me in!
Souffles, salad,
Parker House rolls,
please let me in!
Cook Helen,
why are you so cross,
why is your kitchen verboten?
Couldn't you just teach me
to bake a potato,
to bake a potato,
that charm,
that young prince?
No! No!
This is my county!
You shout silently.
Couldn't you just show me
the gravy. How you drill it out
of the stomach of that bird?
Helen, Helen,
let me in,
let me feel the flour,
is it blinding and frightening,
this stuff that makes cakes?
Helen, Helen,
the kitchen is your dog
and you pat it
and love it
and keep it clean.
But all these things,
all these dishes of things
come through the swinging door
and I don't know from where?
Give me some tomato aspic, Helen!
I don't want to be alone.
poem by Anne Sexton
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Sweet Potato Muffin Cake
Sweet potato muffin cake,
What is it going to take...
For you to let me get,
Another hug and squeeze?
I promise the next time,
Not to sneeze and cough.
My allergies flared up...
Just when you took your sweater off.
Who knew I was allergic to cashmere?
Sweet potato muffin cake,
What is it going to take...
For you to let me get,
Another hug and squeeze?
Now that you know,
Cashmere and I do not agree...
Perhaps you will give me,
Another opportunity?
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
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The Potatoes' Dance
(A Poem Game.)
I
"Down cellar," said the cricket,
"Down cellar," said the cricket,
"Down cellar," said the cricket,
"I saw a ball last night,
In honor of a lady,
In honor of a lady,
In honor of a lady,
Whose wings were pearly-white.
The breath of bitter weather,
The breath of bitter weather,
The breath of bitter weather,
Had smashed the cellar pane.
We entertained a drift of leaves,
We entertained a drift of leaves,
We entertained a drift of leaves,
And then of snow and rain.
But we were dressed for winter,
But we were dressed for winter,
But we were dressed for winter,
And loved to hear it blow
In honor of the lady,
In honor of the lady,
In honor of the lady,
Who makes potatoes grow,
Our guest the Irish lady,
The tiny Irish lady,
The airy Irish lady,
Who makes potatoes grow.
II
"Potatoes were the waiters,
Potatoes were the waiters,
Potatoes were the waiters,
Potatoes were the band,
Potatoes were the dancers
Kicking up the sand,
Kicking up the sand,
Kicking up the sand,
Potatoes were the dancers
Kicking up the sand.
Their legs were old burnt matches,
Their legs were old burnt matches,
Their legs were old burnt matches,
Their arms were just the same.
They jigged and whirled and scrambled,
Jigged and whirled and scrambled,
Jigged and whirled and scrambled,
In honor of the dame,
The noble Irish lady
Who makes potatoes dance,
The witty Irish lady,
The saucy Irish lady,
The laughing Irish lady
Who makes potatoes prance.
III
"There was just one sweet potato.
He was golden brown and slim.
The lady loved his dancing,
The lady loved his dancing,
The lady loved his dancing,
She danced all night with him,
She danced all night with him.
Alas, he wasn't Irish.
So when she flew away,
They threw him in the coal-bin,
And there he is today,
Where they cannot hear his sighs
And his weeping for the lady,
The glorious Irish lady,
The beauteous Irish lady,
Who
Gives
Potatoes
Eyes."
poem by Vachel Lindsay
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In the morning we received some very thin coffee. For lunch we had potato soup with a few pieces of meat in it, in the evening we had a very thin meat soup with some potatoes in it.
quote by Leon Askin
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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