taterhead

I am Taterhead!

Is he peel or rind?
How can we tell what kind?
Growing from the ground,
He has never made a sound.
Is he gold or red?
A dozen eyes upon his head.
We'll just fertilize,
Then we'll watch him grow in size.

He's been mashed and boiled,
Fried as hash browns in oil.
Cooked as Vichyssoise.
Don't know what that is at all.

Nobody wants him.
They would rather eat steak.
Covered in gravy.
He just sits on their plate.

Now that dinner's here,
Taterhead is getting near.
Coming from the stove,
In a serving bowl for show.

Nobody eats him.
They just pass him instead.
Even with butter.
He just sits there as dead.

Heavy bowls of mashed,
Down the disposal at last.
In the sewer now,
Taterhead becomes rat chow.

If you are in a band feel free to add the above song to your set list.
Please send me an MP3 file if you make a recording of it. Thanks.