Neo-neocon has discovered a peculiar but seemingly indispensable kitchen aid: the Tater Mitt, and bemoans the fact that it does not rise to the level of poetry, as some of her other kitchen items have.
Not wanting the good Neo to mourn her paucity of iambic pentameter, the muse descended and I answered her call, saving the fair damsel from her dismay:
As evening dawns, her eyes behold
The eyes of countless spuds heaped high
Their leathered skin so soiled and cold
As evening feasttime e’r grows nigh.
All hope is lost, the hungry crowd
With grumbling stomachs surly sit
The trembling chef, no longer proud,
From cavern’d drawer the dreaded mitt.
She gazes at the grizzled mitt,
With roughened palms, a ghastly green,
Now grasps the soiled spud which sits
With icy eyes and waxy sheen.
She rubs, she rubs, in frenzied rush
As feebled hope springs forth to wit
The shredded skin reveals the flesh,
All hail the glorious Tater Mitt!
Now, back to work…
