| How can you do it? |
| It’s heartless, it’s cruel.
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| It’s murder, cold-blooded, it’s gross.
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| To slay a poor vegetable just for your stew
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| Or to serve with some cheese sauce on toast.
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| Have you no decency? |
| Have you no shame?
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| Have you no conscience, you cad,
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| To rip that poor vegetable out of the earth
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| Away from it’s poor mom and dad?
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| Chorus:
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| Oh, no, don’t slay that potato!
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| Let us be merciful, please.
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| Don’t boil it or fry it, don’t even freeze-dry it.
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| Don’t slice it or flake it.
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| For God’s sake, don’t bake it!
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| Don’t she’d the poor blood
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| Of this poor helpless spud.
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| That’s the worst kind of thing you could do.
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| Oh, no, don’t slay that potato
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| What never done nothing to you!
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| Why not try picking on something your size
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| Instead of some carrot or bean?
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| The peas are all trembling there in their pod
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| Just because you’re so vicious and mean.
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| How would you like to be grabbed by your hair
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| And ruthlessly yanked from your bed
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| And have done to you God knows what horrible things,
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| To be eaten with full-fiber bread?
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| It’s no bed of roses, this vegetable life.
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| You’re basically stuck in the mud.
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| You don’t get around much. |
| You don’t see the sights
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| When you’re a carrot or celery or spud.
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| You’re helpless when somebody’s flea-bitten dog
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| Takes a notion to pause for relief.
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| Then somebody picks you and cleans you and eats you
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| And causes you nothing but grief.
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| There ought to be some way of saving our skins.
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| They ought to be passing a law.
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| Just show anybody a cute little lamb
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| And they’ll all stand around and go «Aw!»
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| Well, potatoes are ugly. |
| Potatoes are plain.
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| We’re wrinkled and lumpy to boot.
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| But give me a break, kid. |
| Do you mean to say
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| That you’ll eat us because we’re not cute?
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| (Chorus |