I care not if the colour of the skin
be white or red or brown, bluish or pink.
The secret of real beauty lies within
nourishment for flesh, soul food. I think
heaven’s manna must at least relate to
this blessed tuber so delicious.
Was there ever an exemplary food
versatile as the lowly potato
so many uses and so nutritious
varied in flavour, texture, always good?

New Jersey Royals grace the month of May.
Tempt us at table to a butter pat.
Remind us spring is now well underway
and everything is seasonal and that
King Edwards, Maris Pipers, Roosters too
will soon be joining culinary ranks
adding flavour to our supper tables
Pentland Javelins spiking up our stew
sweet Minted Charlottes decorate lamb shanks
and Ballymoney Queens become our staples.

I care not whether they are boiled or baked
hash browns, potato bread or mashed or roast
my appetite I fear is never slaked.
My all consuming passion is their boast.
Heaven for me must be a mash mountain
and all the faithful would have long spoons there
to feed each other for eternity
as milk and butter oozed from that fountain
fair, down the flanks in rivulets to where
I’d eat, yet be thin and not thought greedy.

Oh God of the potato, Irish God,
who blighted me with this great appetite
decreed that I be born of that same sod;
give us our daily tubers that we might
live in a heaven where the humble spud
takes pride of place in its diversity
king over bread, couscous, pasta and rice
superior to any sickly pud,
acclaimed, acknowledged universally
forever in potato paradise.