Taters

Today, when I set out to write another poem, I said to myself, "I shall now write a poem that has nothing to do with Samwise Gamgee." So of course the first word of said poem turned out to be "Sam." I'm so good at following my own instructions. I actually have three entirely non-Sam-related Tolkien poems that I have yet to post, but those that feature him seem to possess a certain spark the others lack. The magic of Sam. Oh, well. Sam takes over again. Worse things have happened.

Warning: This poem may or may not have been unduly influenced by an Exceptionally Irritating video that can be found here: http://www.albinoblacksheep.com/flash/taters .

Taters

Sam is in the habit
Of cooking his dinner.
Forced to eat raw rabbit,
He would get much thinner.

Smeagol hasn’t tasted
Cooked food in so long,
He feels his meal’s wasted.
Sam’s doing it all wrong.

“Some taters would be nice,”
Sam mutters thoughtfully.
A splash of old Shire spice
Would help tremendously.

Gangly and unkempt,
Smeagol the Sam-hater
Hisses with contempt,
“Eh? What’s that? What’s taters?”

“Potatoes. Boil ‘em, mash
‘Em, stick ‘em in a stew,”
Sam says. “No one could pass
That up, not even you.”

“Oh, yes we could!” spits Smeagol,
Determined to be rude.
Let’s strangle him like Deagol.
Let’s break him like his food.

Sam can’t hear Smeagol’s threats,
But he senses them still.
If Frodo would just let
Him move in for the kill...

The fierceness of his blow
Would strike the Stinker down.
The Slinker, too, would go.
Sam eyes him with a frown.

Poor Frodo wearily
Is haunted by the hunch
That in the future, he
Should be in charge of lunch.