As I look what do I spy?
A single golden french fry.
He stood tall and whispered, "Hi,
Aloysius Spun am I."
Then with an impish smile, wry,
He said, "I think that I can fly,
At least I know that I must try."
Then came silence -- but a sigh --
And with a curdling banshee cry
Aloysius Spud French Fry,
My little friend so young and spry,
From the table lept he high
And for a moment did defy
Gravity's operandi.
But when that moment passed on by
My special little tater guy
On the kitchen floor did lie
A broken little hash-brown pie.
How could I but help to cry
And wipe a tear drop from my eye
With a tissue -- double ply --
Asking, asking, "Why? Oh Why?
Why'd my french fry have to die?"
From the floor he I did pry
Then I stopped and gasped, "Oh my!"
For with my inner, mental eye
I saw Aloysius Fry
Swooping, swirling, soaring high
Through a mashed potato sky
Happy now that he could fly.
And with a laugh and wink so sly,
As he waved his last good-bye,
mentally projected nigh.
The moral of this story, wry --
"With naught but taters 'hind the eye,
Best think twice before you fly."
~February, 1994
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