His/Her? Excellency, the Tuberlantian Potato Tarquin of Terror
<< la pomme de terre terrible >>
Alias, His/ Her Royal Hindness, The Munchkin
Sonnet for the Munchins of Desire
How shall I tame the flames of passion's fire,
Whene'er they lick the flip sides of my knees?
How shall we quell the Munchkins of Desire
When they inflame us with lust's lunacies?
Love's tubers stand up in priaptic glee,
As star cross-dressers quiver in the wings;
The feathers of dark fancy tickle me
And bring my mind to dream of naughty things.
Ineffable great wobblings of the muse
Disturb me and electrify my brain,
With whispered words to beckon and confuse,
And immolate my underwear again.
No bromide tea, nor song of lute or lyre,
Shall ever quell the Munchkins of Desire!
© The Potato of Terror, July, 2001
Seriously, though, folks, our pal, his (or her, I'm
not sure!) Excellency, the Potato Tarquin of Terror's
sonnets are halways a riot to reads! Howevers, dat
does not precludes duh fact that I, la tomate enragée
du Canada decide to makes dis 'eres challange to/ à
la patate perverse de l'Angleterre (you knows, deHunited
Kingdoms) to tackle justifiable concernes dat I, like is
esteemèd beta carratoid collègue (also from Hengland),
haves halways to brings to his demented hattention.
Alors, wid hall dat in mind, chers amis readers,
permits-moi to bid you a fond "au revoir"
(huntils de next times)!
la tomate enragée à la patate perverse
(The mad tomato to the perverted potato)
Epistle to those Munchkins of Desire!
Who knows? You Munchkins, débauchées of desire,
could lose all your glucose, then come and raise cane
to set a poor bloke's ole' chip stand a'fire!
If you ask us tomatoes (our flesh is too lush!)
why must you red spuds make such an inane
FUSS over chip-chili con carne mush,
when it's as plain as rain mainly in Spain
les tomates are les filles, youse greasy brown chips!
Our spice is délice to lovers who drain
juices from us through their quivering lips,
elixirs flamboyant, potions of love;
They love us tomatoes. They'll decline spuds.
Spring bears our sprigs in the beak of the dove!
Roses agree. You poor tubers are duds!
© by Richard Vallance, July 2001
De following comment his in "franglais" or "Frenglish"