Come, get up, Sal,
peel off another,
peel still another day
off the calendar—
come, get along,
peel them for noon-time—
potatoes—
peel them for night-time—
potatoes—
some folk like them for breakfast,
peel some for breakfast—
potatoes—
slip your knife between their
skin and flesh
and mind, don't go slipping it
between your own!
If Mr. Columbus hadn't been what he was,
had he been what you are, Sal,
he'd never have felt the world round,
he'd have felt it a
potato,
crooked and wrinkled,
never the same shape twice,
no shape at all,
full of bumps and crevices,
warts like mountain peaks—
no place for a man in his senses
to go crawling, exploring—
he'd have seen it what it is, a
potato,
and another,
and then another,
and then still another,
and he'd have stayed at home like you,
peeling,
peeling potatoes.
Go, peel them off your back,
off your arms,
off your hips,
off your legs,
off your feet—
clothes—
clothes.
When you call me in the morning, Mr. Rooster,
don't call me Sal any more,
I don't know that name any more,
I don't answer to it any more—
if you've got to get me up again, call out
Potato!
Go, peel them off the bed,
quilt,
counterpane,
sheet and
get under and dream—
yes, be fooled a little more—
yes, I know you, Mr. Bed—
you're a nice soft fellow to lie with—
you and your spooky talk
fit to turn a nigger white
about potato goblins
coming and going on match-sticks for legs,
they doing the cake-walk,
me playing the tune.
I told you, Mr. Rooster, never to call me again—
told you my name is Potato—
told you not to call out Sal any more—
told you to call someone else by that name.
Come, get up, Potato—
yes, that's me—
peel open your eyes—
yes, I'll peel—
come, peel off another,
still another today.
Mr. Today, yes, I know—
don't have to tell me about you—
I know you, Man—
and yesterday,
and day before yesterday,
and day before day before yesterday,
and tomorrow,
and day after tomorrow,
and day after day after tomorrow—
your whole family, Mr. Man,
the whole of old Mr. Noah's ark of you
todays.
And day after day after day after tomorrow,
when I die—
I know that too—
it being my today—
I know they'll peel off some earth
and stick me under—
I know that too—
yes—
no—no—
not if the wind use the rain,
Mr. Wind use Mr. Rain
for still another knife
to come peeling some more!
Oh Mr. Lord—
oh good Mr. Lord—
peel open your eye—
peel Mr. Cloud off Mr. Sun
before Mr. Wind bring Mr. Rain
to come peeling me from under
the skin of Mr. Sod!
Oh dear Mr. Lord—
if they do, Mr. Lord—
if they've got to, Mr. Lord—
if they've got to get me up,
it being my today—
and you've got to call me,
me that's used to being called—
don't call out, Sal,
whisper Mr. Gabriel to whisper,
Potato—
or I simply can't promise
nobody,
no-day,
no-how,
to peel the worms off my body
and the body off my soul!