Disclaimer: I do not own The Lord of the Rings. It belongs
to JRR Tolkien.
The Tater Peeler
I went to Master Gamgee's hole,
One cool crisp evening spring,
He told me it was important,
Important that I should bring,
A tater.
A tater, I thought, must be quite unique,
For it to be classified as so,
So I took a sack down to Bag End,
To Master Gamgee's I go,
A pot was boiling over heated stove,
Filled with water that boiled,
My mouth watered at the very thought,
Could there be roasted meat broiled?
"Come here now," said the Master,
Allowing me some room,
Beside a cutting board and peeler,
And near that a pan and broom,
"Peel the taters," he said again,
He pointed to the sack,
Filled with red or brown taters,
Waiting for me to hack,
Into bits.
I took up the peeler and held up a tater,
Which was washed and wet,
Placing it on the cutting board,
I suddenly broke out in a sweat,
How do I use this freakish contraption?
What makes the peeler work?
A blade is here and a handle is there,
But what if I made a wrong jerk?
And cut myself and stained the taters,
Just like I did with that other cheese grater,
Could I save the pain for maybe time later?
Or maybe I'm just a slicing-hater,
"What be wrong, lad?" the Master asked,
Eyeing my fear with great suspicion,
Suppose he figured that I can't peel taters,
What if I suffer his omission?
"Can ye peel taters?" he asked in a tone,
That should've made my eyes pop,
I can't cut spuds, so what do I do?
Perhaps I should try a new crop,
Other than taters.
"Here, lad," he said to me,
Taking the peeler from my hands,
And he did the following with such skill and care,
That he might've learned in other lands,
He picked it up,
He brought it down,
He scraped the blade against the skin,
Shreds came off,
And white-yellow was clear,
It was a peeled potato,
Well, tater. Yeah.
"Now, you try,"
Again the Master spoke,
Giving me the peeler,
Without a hint to provoke,
I trembled,
But then I,
Picked it up,
Brought it down,
Scraped the blade against the skin,
Shreds came off,
And white-yellow was clear,
It was a peeled potato,
Yes, a tater.
I set that first tater into a bowl,
Before picking up another,
In moments the second had shed,
Giving me joy like no other,
I could peel taters.
You can call me, The Tater Peeler.
Today, I masterfied the potato peeler! I got a cut on my left ring-finger, but I peeled taters too! So now, the pot-roast I helped my mother make has taters in it.
The Tater Peeler
I went to Master Gamgee's hole,
One cool crisp evening spring,
He told me it was important,
Important that I should bring,
A tater.
A tater, I thought, must be quite unique,
For it to be classified as so,
So I took a sack down to Bag End,
To Master Gamgee's I go,
A pot was boiling over heated stove,
Filled with water that boiled,
My mouth watered at the very thought,
Could there be roasted meat broiled?
"Come here now," said the Master,
Allowing me some room,
Beside a cutting board and peeler,
And near that a pan and broom,
"Peel the taters," he said again,
He pointed to the sack,
Filled with red or brown taters,
Waiting for me to hack,
Into bits.
I took up the peeler and held up a tater,
Which was washed and wet,
Placing it on the cutting board,
I suddenly broke out in a sweat,
How do I use this freakish contraption?
What makes the peeler work?
A blade is here and a handle is there,
But what if I made a wrong jerk?
And cut myself and stained the taters,
Just like I did with that other cheese grater,
Could I save the pain for maybe time later?
Or maybe I'm just a slicing-hater,
"What be wrong, lad?" the Master asked,
Eyeing my fear with great suspicion,
Suppose he figured that I can't peel taters,
What if I suffer his omission?
"Can ye peel taters?" he asked in a tone,
That should've made my eyes pop,
I can't cut spuds, so what do I do?
Perhaps I should try a new crop,
Other than taters.
"Here, lad," he said to me,
Taking the peeler from my hands,
And he did the following with such skill and care,
That he might've learned in other lands,
He picked it up,
He brought it down,
He scraped the blade against the skin,
Shreds came off,
And white-yellow was clear,
It was a peeled potato,
Well, tater. Yeah.
"Now, you try,"
Again the Master spoke,
Giving me the peeler,
Without a hint to provoke,
I trembled,
But then I,
Picked it up,
Brought it down,
Scraped the blade against the skin,
Shreds came off,
And white-yellow was clear,
It was a peeled potato,
Yes, a tater.
I set that first tater into a bowl,
Before picking up another,
In moments the second had shed,
Giving me joy like no other,
I could peel taters.
You can call me, The Tater Peeler.
Today, I masterfied the potato peeler! I got a cut on my left ring-finger, but I peeled taters too! So now, the pot-roast I helped my mother make has taters in it.