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To the humble potato
By Ali Seegar

Gromperen –

the word rolls round your tongue,

with a growl at the front

or maybe a grunt.


and an omp like a lump;

the gromp a grump.


For a Lëtzebuerger

it’s served on their order

and fried, perhaps, mashed

with a steak that’s been flashed


in the grill. Swilled down

with some wine from the Rhein.


Yet for me, it’s not tea,

it’s a textbook entry

as I attempt to finesse

my Lëtzebuergesch,


its vowels the toughest,

its accent the gruffest.


When I first said Moien

to greet a cool guy in

his tongue, it was light

it felt a delight,


but with a guffaw

he replied like Eeyore.


This Sprooch I must speak,

my citizenship I seek,

in the beautiful land;

this Duchy so Grande.


But until I can fit in

I’ll stick with Pommes Fritten.

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