Salty flakes of heavenly bliss and crumbs,
Fashioned from the common potato grown,
Not from the heavens but from the ground comes,
Delicacy that commoners have sown.
Like stars in the night twinkles the grainy salt;
Its golden complexion mirrors the sun;
Its grand hue makes men gaze in awe and halt,
And behold its pleasing taste that does stun.
At what cost do we fashion these that crunch?
What of the varieties mashed or baked?
Verily there are times and places for such;
But not for these things has my stomach quaked.
God help me if a crumb falls from my lip;
I dare not squander even one single chip.