O blemished potato with thickened hide,
Doomed to be quartered, battered, and fried.
Reduced to a forth and covered with crust.
Suffering through this outrageous injust.

Over three hundred degrees climbs the grease.
Two and ten minutes of hell for each piece.
The lid is opened. There is no doubt.
Golden brown is the tater. Cooked throughout.

The basket is lifted higher and higher.
Out of the frying pan, into the fire.
A mausoleum does the warmer make.
Only minutes will eternity take.

In the warmer for a moment or two
The tater knows the grim reaper is due.
This ends the story of the tater’s fate.
Sold for twelve pennies and then it was ate.