There are songs you may sing of a spud in a sling
neath the shimmer of Northern Lights
You may keep yer eyes peeled, and yer masher concealed
fer a glimpse of a giant in tights
But when I last saw him his tuber was thawin as he sat in a pit full o' coals
Said he "girls, spare the grater- I'm the old Master Tater
When it's cooked just line up with yer bowls!"