Mr Potato Head's Dead

Mr. Potatohead’s Dead Alas, this morning I found him As I looked towards the front of the door The shell of a spud that he once was Lying face down on the floor There’s an arm by the entry way stair way There’s a leg ‘neath the living room chair And his eyes there on top of the TV Transfix me with furious glare “You left me alone and so trusting As you went to make dinner last night, With a whirlwind/tornado/destroyer A sad victim of your progeny’s might” I pick up his cold plastic body And press all the buttons I can But the songs and the talking are mute now Forever for this starchy man And so we pick up the pieces And to the toy graveyard we go (It’s really an old laundry basket) That’s bursting with toy overflow Old choo-choo and dancing truck’s in there And Tigger’s that won’t bounce 1 & 2 A bumble ball with an old burned out motor And a soft, headless posable “Blue” I really should not have expected So much from this poor little fellow When the child who he thought once would cherish Turns out to be quite less than mellow But Boys will be boys so they tell me And I have a strange feeling inside Another procession just like this Will be par for the course on this ride Written February 27th, 2002 © on Feb 27 2002 12:30 PM PST   18 • 0 • 14