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There once was a farm girl from Maine Who danced in the nude to make rain. When needing some sun, Then naked she’d run (Nude dancing and running were pains.)
But she was a maiden devoted. Her spuds, while with dirt they were coated, Still needed attention-- And that’s why I mention Just what all her nudeness denoted.
And then came the wonderful day When this Kazza turned over the clay And pulled from the ground Potatoes so round… They’d been incubating since May!
The goddess then took four young spuds And washed from their skin-- dirt and mud. In paper she wrapped… T’was newsprint she’d scrapped… And packed them to mail to her bud.
See, Grahame is a funny old geezer… Eats taters he pulls from the freezer. They’re already sliced, Or shredded or diced He swears they’re an appetite pleaser.
But Kazza, that girl from the hills Knows frozen spuds can’t give you thrills. She did her utmost To mail through the post Potatoes, quite whole, with no frills.
But the Customs man checking Down Under Did heft Kazza’s parcel and wonder If it held cocaine That was grown up in Maine… (Do you grow it? Or is that a blunder?)
Well, anyway, Customs had cause To check Grahame’s box shipped into Oz. Potatoes they found… Who knew they were round? And dimpled and brown? Were they flaws?
This girl who did farming while naked Promoted potatoes whole baked Not pulled from a sack Piled on pan, slid on rack… She wanted that concept forsaked!
But Aussies don’t grow their potatoes… At best , they can raise some tomatoes. They’d rather eat fries Or ‘chips’, I surmise… To eat with their pasta al fredo.
The Customs man sent Grahame a letter. He said, ‘I must keep your pertetter. It is contraband I’m slapping your hand! These veggies are doomed for the shredder.’
The SWAT team was thusly deployed And Kazza’s potato-- destroyed. When assumed it had died, That spud-- it was fried And Customs, those chips they enjoyed.
Now Grahame is distressed, it would seem. His whole life it had been his dream… Potato skins crisp Were now will o’ the wisp… As were bacon, and chives…sour cream.
But Kazza will not let him down! Those customs guys gave her a frown They dared confiscate Food meant for Grahame’s plate, And caused her to look like a clown!
She knew that her heart--it held purity! What nerve—to make her feel dir-ity! So spuds she did pack In her carry-on sack… She’d chance it with Homeland Security!
They patted her down in the lobby. It seemed an unwarranted jobby! Her bra could not hold Potatoes so bold! Perhaps it was more of a hobby!
The x-ray guard then let her through She sat down to put on her shoe. They called out her flight-- The timing was tight! To make it—through airport she flew!
She was the last one on the plane. Getting frisked was a heck of a pain! As the plane reached the skies She—dismayed-- realized Her potatoes were still back in Maine.
So Kazza, now quite empty-handed In Australia much later she landed. She promptly was cuffed, In a prison bus stuffed… For leaving her carry-on stranded.
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