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From The Lost Book of Tuberlantis
(Translated from the Spudscrit by The Potato of Terror)


Retrieved Passage 1:
Prologue

Many leagues beneath the sea
where the flat-winged sloth skate flies
lie the million fossil eyes
of Tuberlantis: drowned city.

There tuber groovers, bright and bold
who once cross-dressed for star-crossed love
lie prone while freight ships pass above
they sleep in silt, like buried gold.

For all the laughter and the beers,
the long-lost camp, the gaiety
for buried lives of mystery
we weep for them, and droop our ears.

And Oh! The laugh like cackling loons
And Ah! The whip that downward swings
upon the tuber's broken wings
and scattered crumbs of macaroons.

Here lie the pages of a sage
who fought against becoming mad
who wrote the only thoughts he had
through fizzing fits and gnashing rage.




Retrieved Passage 2:
The Book of Days


They said to him it was unwise
it could not be pushed in that way
he nodded back, rolling his eyes
and went and pushed it anyway

The tubers all were sore dismayed
at such repentless recklessness
with such a coarse tool as a spade
by a King Edward in a dress

They hauled him to a prison cell
they made him eat cold plates of tripe
and pick oakum, in that dark hell
where budding criminals turn ripe

and so he wrote a Book of Days
to chronicle his suffering
with stolen ink and icing glaze
amid great huffs and muttering

he wrote it all on bedding sheets
and anything that came to hand
he hid it in his trouser pleats
hoping the world would understand

an erring artist's vanity
and descent into wicked ways
the slow collapse of sanity
that gave birth to The Book of Days.

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