How is it like to be a potato?

How is it like to be a potato?
With people, cooperations and schoolkids alike, wanting you so bad?
With mothers enticing children to swallow greens with your presence?
With being confused for being a green when you're not?
When you wield the power to pump the tyre around the girth?
When you, after being processed thoroughly, are my favourite unhealthy snack?
How is it like, Potato, being so renowned?

Or should I even be asking you that?
When you are grown in one place, but harvested by people from the South?
When cooperations process you being your intrinsic self?
Should I ask Chemicals and Salt as they perhaps are the cosmetics of your barren self?
Or should the packaging which you are in after being pulped into chips?



Uncle T