World War One grenade among potatoes at Hong Kong crisp factory

Original article

It was nineteen fifteen, and you know what that means;
In a festering trench, far from Mother,
Some poor little shit, either German or Brit
Was fighting for something or other.

Though his grace under fire was beginning to tire,
And he hurt, he must never desert.
So he lobbed a grenade, but it stayed where it laid
Unexploded and coated with dirt.

The bomb lingered on in the sod of the Somme
While potatoes were planted about
Encrusted with crud, it resembled a spud
Though the bomb never managed to sprout

So it comes to this year, and the harvest-time’s here.
As the farmer plucked spuds from the muck,
The blade of his spade disengaged the grenade
And it ended up chucked in his truck.

Though his tuberous load might explode on the road
He trundled off, quite unaware.
Who’d think the truck’s bed would, among the king Edwards,
Be holding a rare bombe de terre?

The soon-to-be fries then took to the skies;
Their aeroplane journey was long.
And the volatile freight flew to meet with its fate
At a crisp-making plant in Hong Kong.

What terrible dangers the workers sustained as
They processed potatoes: who knew
If they gave one a bash, they could end up as mash
Or be burned to a crisp when it blew?

A smart operator inspecting the taters
Exposed the explosive intrusion.
With a bubble and squeak, the unstable antique
was removed for secluded defusion.