I was listening to some music tonight, and Bud the Spud started playing, which reminded me of a sketch I wrote a long time ago, called The Church of the Blessed Sebago. Basically, it was a reverent recitation of Bud the Spud as if it was Gospel, written as bible verses. It was kind of a one-joke bit that never really went anywhere, and never really saw the light of day.
But the sermon did end with this Potato Grower's Prayer, which I rather like:
“Our tuber, which art in red soil
How good thy taste baked.
Fried, mashed or broiled, thy will be sold
To Cavendish Farms as much as to McCains.
Give us this day our maximum yield
And forgive us our PVY-n
As we forgive Maine their transport embargoes.
And lead us not into land use dilemmas
But deliver us from erosion
For thy pay the mortgage, the power, the grocer
For ever and ever, Amen.”