Potato picking here we go,

Pull them out row by row,

The sun is hot and the ground dry,

My back aches and I could cry.

Above, a hawk hovers and swoops,

In the distance I can hear the brook,

Upon the ground the field mice scurry,

Ants at my feet are in a hurry.

Potatoes looking new and fresh,

Good earth clinging to the flesh,

Proudly showing off their new suit,

It seems alive, this bulbous root.

Potato picking here we go

Pull them out row by row

The sun is hot and the ground dry

My back aches and I could cry.

by Thurza McIntosh