Crisps

Crisps

A gang of spuds rise from the soil.
Leave, they do, the field of toil.
In their midst a head of cabbage
Cries, “Release me from this cage!”

Enter the woods, so dark and still.
Perhaps, you wonder if they’ll kill,
Lying, she, in the cage, so sweet.
Enter now the hero’s feat?

A knight in white like magic appears.
Slice and carve, he wields his spear.
A tater lives, I never jest.
Nothing equals the pudgy quest.

Careening, they’re oval, paper thin.
Escape to sea, they think they win.
“Lift the sail! We’ll prevail!”
In a Viking craft they wail.

Doused in salty stormy waves.
Dried sun crispy. It’s their grave.
Enter a hell of steaming oil.
Listen to the taters boil.

Life? It’s a riddle or a joke.