Ode to a Baked Potato, on First Coming Out of the Oven

Your salted skin,

Thin, crisply brown,

Conceals within

A wealth of starch,

And butter is

Your golden crown.

 

Though lowly born,

O child of earth,

Your value is

A ransom’s worth

To one who knows

A famine’s dearth.

 

The light of sun

You do not know,

But heated by

An oven’s glow,

You bring us warmth

From lands below.