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How oft when thou, my potatoes, potato chop'st,
Upon that blessed wood whose motion sounds
With thy sweet blade when thou sharply swing'st
The hairy concord that mine ear confounds,
Do I envy those snacks that nimble leap,
To kiss the tender inward of handy thighs,
Whilst my wet lips which should that harvest reap,
At my tongues lolling by thee dripping hang!
To be so smacked, they would change their state
And situation with those dancing chops,
O'er whom thy walk with gentle lops,
Making dead wood more starch'd than living hops.
Since saucy snacks so happy are in this,
Give them thy fingers, me thy chips to kiss.