More Potatoes Please

Back on October 10 of last year, I featured a poem about a potato. It seems there is a whole sub-sub-genre of poetry devoted to that humble tuber. Here's an interesting example, from someone whose reputation as a writer is still intact:

The Potatoes’ Dance

Vachel Lindsay (A Poem Game.)

    I
"Down cellar," said the cricket, 
"Down cellar," said the cricket, 
"Down cellar," said the cricket, 
“I saw a ball last night,
In honor of a lady,
In honor of a lady, 
In honor of a lady, 
Whose wings were pearly-white.
The breath of bitter weather,
The breath of bitter weather, 
The breath of bitter weather,
Had smashed the cellar pane. 
We entertained a drift of leaves, 
We entertained a drift of leaves, 
We entertained a drift of leaves, 
And then of snow and rain.
But we were dressed for winter,
But we were dressed for winter,
But we were dressed for winter,
And loved to hear it blow 
In honor of the lady,
In honor of the lady,
In honor of the lady, 
Who makes potatoes grow, 
Our guest the Irish lady, 
The tiny Irish lady, 
The airy Irish lady,
Who makes potatoes grow.  
II  
“Potatoes were the waiters,
Potatoes were the waiters, 
Potatoes were the waiters, 
Potatoes were the band, 
Potatoes were the dancers 
Kicking up the sand, 
Kicking up the sand, 
Kicking up the sand,
Potatoes were the dancers
Kicking up the sand. 
Their legs were old burnt matches,
Their legs were old burnt matches, 
Their legs were old burnt matches,
Their arms were just the same. 
They jigged and whirled and scrambled,
Jigged and whirled and scrambled, 
Jigged and whirled and scrambled, 
In honor of the dame, 
The noble Irish lady
Who makes potatoes dance,
The witty Irish lady,
The saucy Irish lady,
The laughing Irish lady
Who makes potatoes prance.  
III  
“There was just one sweet potato.
He was golden brown and slim.
The lady loved his dancing, 
The lady loved his dancing,
The lady loved his dancing, 
She danced all night with him, 
She danced all night with him. 
Alas, he wasn’t Irish.
So when she flew away,
They threw him in the coal-bin,
And there he is today, 
Where they cannot hear his sighs
And his weeping for the lady,
The glorious Irish lady,
The beauteous Irish lady, 
Who
Gives 
Potatoes
Eyes.”