The blight is on the earthly pome;
There's no food in your home.
Small fam'ly; there's only 8,
But it has been days since they ate.

There's no treats; you can't eat--
Go without; there's no meat.
There is a blight; there's no sheaves
To bring in, so you gobble leaves.

Oh you had hoped that they would be immune,
The spuds, but no.

The tubers wither, rot each day in peat-infused mud;
You know that
They're gonna be wasted, your afflicted tubes, spuds.

You cannot dine; you cannot feed;
You're even running out of mead.
There's no Guinness, communion wine,
And you've polished off the last swine.
End of the line.

You can't be saved;
They're gonna put you in the grave,
Where you will rest next too
Tubers turned into goo.

Oh you had hoped that they would be immune,
The spuds, but no.

The tubers wither, rot each day in peat-infused mud;
You know that
They're gonna be wasted, your afflicted tubes, spuds

Blight has 'em wasted, your afflicted tubes, spuds.
Blight has 'em wasted, poor afflicted food, spuds.
Slight body's wasted, your affliction's doomed spuds.
Slight body's wasted, two can fit in your duds.
Slight body's placed in box they stick in the mud.

You now rest in your earthly home,
Your body 'neath the loam,
Because you had nothing to eat.
And years later, they'll call you "Pete."

The tubers withered, and you were down to your last spuds;
You know that
Years later they're tasty--you're enriching the buds

That turn to taters--you're enriching the spuds.
Sooner or later someone digs in the mud.
They extract taters that did stick in that mud.
Reincarnation--you re-live as a spud.
But you're a tater, you'll be fixed as their grub.

[end here or continue]

Sooner or later, you exit from their bum.
"Might as well taste it," says a kid to his chum,
After he's placed it on the tip of his thumb,
After he's taken substantial whiff of some.
"At it I've gazed 'n' it does look like a dump.
And a nasal whiff tells me it came from rump.
So I'm elated we didn't step in some!"