On the radio
And the television
In the newspapers
On everyone's lips
The man is
In everything but an egg
Ubiquitous chip,
True spud of Ireland
Who digs with his pen
Once again,
The perennial flower
Of Poesy
Is found on top
Of a potato stalk.
I never read Seamus Heaney, but I since you are referring to his poetry. Particularly with your line about the egg. Perhaps it is because only women carry eggs, not men.
From my childhood that my uncles farm, I recall vividly that what is on the top of potato stocks is a hey dudebug that we took buckets with wooden sticks to knock them off into the bucket. Then take them and dump them in a fire that my uncle made to burn them.
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From my childhood that my uncles farm, I recall vividly that what is on the top of potato stocks is a hey dudebug that we took buckets with wooden sticks to knock them off into the bucket. Then take them and dump them in a fire that my uncle made to burn them.
Ron