Once upon a time in the land of Sod there was a little stone, no normal stone, for it had Royal blood.
It lay in a field day after day.
The stone all alone in a field with no phone.
One day came the Planters and sowed some potatoes.
Little stone filled with glee, because he could see, no more all alone in his field woody bee.
The rain and the sun gave them hours of fun and the long nights of dew gave them little to do.
They laughed the day round as they slowly went blue.
Bigger and bigger Little Stone's friends they grew, because they knew in their hearts, it's what they're destined to do.
You know Little Stone, the potatoes did say, We'll leave you one day, but, when we can't say.
We hope to be taken to McDonald's on Skye, it's' the fate of potatoes, it's where we all go to die.
Let's not think of that day.
For nows time to play.
So the potatoes had fun with little stone in the Sun, that shone not that day.
The day of the machines, it came quite abrupt and so the potatoes were all taken upt.
In the flash of an eye and without a goodbye, the potatoes were taken for their trip up to Skye.
Once more all alone, little stone stayed in bed, sad thoughts ran round in his hard little head.
All day he stayed, didn't play, wouldn't say, what it was that caused little stone such dismay.
Then came the old farmer, outstanding no more, rather more shaped to lean over a door.
He stood and surveyed, it's the field where they played.
His sight, though not rite, perceived a great blight.
The field was bereft, nothing was left.
Till the field in it's sadness and to quieten it's madness, produced little stone on it's top all alone.
Little stone, is it you I can see all alone? said the Farmer.
For better to see, he crouched down on his knee.
Yeah smee said the stone, my friends are all gone and me's Homer Lone.
Said the farmer, the charmer, I'm sure you can see, the spuds had a place they really must be.
Little stone, wailed the wind, though you grieve, please believe.
It was written before in old Tato lore.
You'd a job for to do, to send off those spuds with a glint in their eyes, waste not on goodbyes, though the spuds, they aren't great, not all are bad.
If you grieve little stone, then this please believe.
You're the King of the Spuds "A Real Stone of Potato's!" By Aiden Mackle.