Pommes de Terre
(Apples of the Earth, i.e., Potatoes)

Honey Crisp, Russet,
Or Granny Smith,
Your apple is famous
In legend and myth...
As when Adam ate
That forbidden fruit,
And Adam’s apple
Stuck in Adam's throat!
"It’s an apple from the
Tree of Knowledge;
It's even better than
Going to college,"
Said Adam's wife,
"And now we'll eat
From the Tree of Life."
"Uh, oh," said Adam,
And Eve said, "Pardon?"
And God said, "BOTH OF YOU!
OUT OF MY GARDEN!"
Yes, Original Sin
Was a great mishap,
All humanity doomed
By Eve's Winesap.
And she's blamed
To this day
For that terrible hex...
Just trying to educate
Adam on sex.
But we oughta thank Eve
For the final results
Which allowed
All God's children
To grow up adults...
Cuz we're all Eve's babies,
And she'd never have had 'em
If she'd left it up
To that big baby, Adam.
The Apple of Discord
Is another good story
Of ancient, epic,
Celestial glory.
Thrown by the
Goddess of Discord, Eris,
This bad apple led to
The Judgment of Paris...
A long tale to tell,
But the apple core
Is it caused the famous
Trojan War
And that glorious
Iliad-Odyssey verse,
All from an apple...
And Homer, of course.
So apples in myth
Are widespread and propitious,
Your Macintosh, Pippin,
And Golden Delicious.
And your French tomato
Is a pomme d’amour.
How ‘bout them
Love apples, Monsieur?
[Dang Frenchmen
Have a pomme du jour.]
But your potato
Is quite another beast,
Famed for famine
More than feast.
Neither poetic, symbolic,
Nor cute,
It's the Rodney
Dangerfield of fruit.
No one says,
"You're the potato
Of my eye,"
Or "American
As potato pie."
And who would ever
Stop to read
The Legend of
Johnny Potatoseed?
And what if William Tell’s
Son instead
Had put a potato
On his head?
I'm pretty sure
That Mr. Tell
Could shoot a potato
Just as well,
But it's not a story
We'd ever reTell.
And think of mankind's
Total depravity,
If we'd never learned
The secrets of gravity,
And a big potato, full of gluten,
Had bonked poor Isaac
On his Newton.
And Steve Jobs
(There was
No one acuter)
Didn't call his machine
The Potato Computer.
There are apple treats
Of so many sorts:
Cobblers, crumbles,
Crisps, and tortes,
Muffins, cookies,
Bars, and squares,
Strudels, dumplings,
Tarts, eclaires,
Apples pied and
Apples caked,
Apples candied,
Taffied, baked,
And carameled apples.
YUM, I can’t wait!
But carameled potatoes?
Uh... not so great.
And just as in food,
So in verse on the whole,
Refinement, elegance,
And taste play a role.
So to compare
Homer, Shakespeare, or Keats,
To any scribbler
You'd meet in the streets,
Those rhyming, lisping
Elmer Fudds,
Is like comparing
Apples to spuds.
All of us rhymers
Sitting at home
Would write epic verse
A la ancient Rome,
Or even a bright, red
Paris pomme,
If we could.
We would!
But we can't; so we shan't.
Consider the wives
Of the great poets then
And what a joy
It must have been,
And the pride and the love
That filled their homes
As their hubbies penned
Those immortal poems.
Now think of the scribbler’s
Poor wifey instead,
Married to Mr. Potato Head,
The shame, the chagrin,
And the constant dread.
But hey! There ain’t
Nobody scared.
And honestly
I'm un-de-terred,
Planted here in my
Comfy chair,
Scribbling another
Pome de terre.