 THE POTATOES DANCE by V. A. LINZE Red for LibriVox.org by Andrea Fiori Downseller said the cricket, I saw a ball last night, in honor of a lady whose wings were pearly white. The breath of bitter weather had smashed the cellar pain. We entertained a drift of leaves and then of snow and rain. But we were dressed for winter and loved to hear it blow, in honor of the lady who made potatoes grow. Our guest, the Irish lady, the tiny Irish lady, the fairy Irish lady, that makes potatoes grow. Potatoes were the waiters, potatoes were the band, potatoes were the dancers, kicking up the sand. Their legs were old burnt matches, their arms were just the same. They jigged and whirled and scrambled, in honor of the dame. The noble Irish lady, who makes potatoes dance. The witty Irish lady, the saucy Irish lady. The laughing Irish lady, who makes potatoes prance. There was just one sweet potato, he was golden brown and slim. The lady loved his figure, she danced all night with him. Alas, he was an Irish, so when she flew away, they threw him in the coal bin. And there he is, to-day, where they cannot hear his sighs, his weeping for the lady, the beauteous Irish lady, the radiant Irish lady, who gives potatoes eyes. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Potatoes Dance, by Vacheal Lindsay, read for LibriVox.org by Anna Roberts. Downseller, said the cricket, I saw a ball last night, in honor of a lady whose wings were pearly white, the breath of bitter weather had smashed the cellar pain, we entertained a drift of leaves, and then of snow and rain. But we were dressed for winter, and loved to hear it blow in honor of the lady who makes potatoes grow. Our guest, the Irish lady, the tiny Irish lady, the fairy Irish lady, that makes potatoes grow. Potatoes were the waiters, potatoes were the band, potatoes were the dancers kicking up the sand, their legs were old burnt matches, their arms were just the same, they jigged in world and scrambled in honor of the dame, the noble Irish lady who makes potatoes dance, the witty Irish lady, the saucy Irish lady, the laughing Irish lady who makes potatoes prance, there was just one sweet potato, he was golden brown and slim, the lady loved his figure, she danced all night with him, alas he wasn't Irish, so when she flew away they threw him in the coal bin, and there he is today where they cannot hear his eyes his weeping for the lady, the beauteous Irish lady, the radiant Irish lady who gives potatoes eyes. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. THE POTATOES DANCE by VATUAL LYNZE Red for LibriVox.org by BELONA TIMES Down cellars at the cricket I saw a ball last night, in honor of a lady whose wings were pearly white. The breath of bitter weather had smashed the cellar pain, we entertained a drift of leaves and then of snow and rain, but we were dressed for winter and loved to hear it blow, in honor of the lady who makes potatoes grow. Our guest, the Irish lady, the tiny Irish lady, the fairy Irish lady that makes potatoes grow. Potatoes were the waiters, potatoes were the band, potatoes were the dancers kicking up the sand, their legs were old burnt matches, their arms were just the same, they jigged and whirled and scrambled in honor of the dame. The noble Irish lady who makes potatoes dance. The witty Irish lady, the saucy Irish lady, the laughing Irish lady who makes potatoes prance. There was just one sweet potato. He was golden brown and slim. The lady loved his figure, she danced all night with him. Alas, he wasn't Irish, so when she flew away, they threw him in the coal bin and there he is today, where they cannot hear his sighs, his weeping for the lady, the beautiest Irish lady, the radiant Irish lady who gives potatoes eyes. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Potatoes Dance by Vaichel Lindsay. Read for LibriVox.org by Carol Stripling. Downseller said the cricket, I saw a ball last night in honor of a lady whose wings were pearly white. The breath of bitter weather had smashed the cellar pain. We entertained a drift of leaves and then of snow and rain. But we were dressed for winter and loved to hear it blow in honor of the lady who makes potatoes grow. Our guest, the Irish lady, the tiny Irish lady, the fairy Irish lady that makes potatoes grow. Potatoes were the waiters, potatoes were the band, potatoes were the dancers kicking up the sand. Their legs were old burnt matches, their arms were just the same. They jigged and whirled and scrambled in honor of the dame, the noble Irish lady who makes potatoes dance, the witty Irish lady, the saucy Irish lady, the laughing Irish lady who makes potatoes prance. There was just one sweet potato. He was golden brown and slim. The lady loved his figure. She danced all night with him. Alas, he wasn't Irish. So when she flew away, they threw him in the coal bin, and there he is today, where they cannot hear his sighs, his weeping for the lady. The beautious Irish lady, the radiant Irish lady, who gives potatoes eyes. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Potatoes Dance by Vachel Lindsay. Read for LibriVox.org by Eduardo Solis. Downseller said the cricket, I saw a ball last night in honor of a lady whose wings were pearly white. The breath of bitter weather had smashed the cellar pain. We entertained a drift of leaves and then of snow and rain, but we were dressed for winter and loved to hear it blow in honor of the lady who makes potatoes grow. Our guest, the Irish lady, the tiny Irish lady, the fairy Irish lady that makes potatoes grow. Potatoes were the waiters. Potatoes were the band. Potatoes were the dancers, kicking up the sand. Their legs were old burnt matches. Their arms were just the same. They jigged and whirled and scrambled in honor of the dame. The noble Irish lady who makes potatoes dance. The witty Irish lady, the saucy Irish lady, the laughing Irish lady who makes potatoes prance. There was just one sweet potato. He was golden, brown, and slim. The lady loved his figure. She danced all night with him. Alas, he wasn't Irish, so when she flew away, they threw him in the coal bin. And there he is today, where they cannot hear his sighs, his weeping for the lady, the beautyish Irish lady, the radiant Irish lady who gives potatoes eyes. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Potatoes Dance by Vachel Enzi, read for LibriVox.org by Emily Whitworth. Down cellars said the cricket, I saw a ball last night, in honor of a lady whose wings were pearly white. The breath of bitter weather had smashed the cellar pane. We entertained a drift of leaves and then of snow and rain. But we were dressed for winter and loved to hear it blow, in honor of the lady who makes potatoes grow. Our guest, the Irish lady, the tiny Irish lady, the fairy Irish lady that makes potatoes grow. Potatoes were the waiters, potatoes were the band, potatoes were the dancers kicking up the sand, their legs were old burnt matches, their arms were just the same. They jinked and whirled and scrambled in honor of the dame. The noble Irish lady who makes potatoes dance. The witty Irish lady, the saucy Irish lady, the laughing Irish lady who makes potatoes prance. There was just one sweet potato. He was golden brown and slim. The lady loved his figure. She danced all night with him. Alas, he wasn't Irish. So when she flew away, they threw him in the coal bin. And there he is today, where they cannot hear his sighs, his weeping for the lady, the beautiest Irish lady, the radiant Irish lady who gives potatoes eyes. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Potatoes Dance by Veichel Lincey. Read for LibreVox.org by Eswa in Belgium in March 2009. Downseller said the cricket. I saw a ball last night in honor of a lady whose wings were pearly white. The breath of bitter weather had smashed the cellar pane. We entertained a drift of leaves and then of snow and rain. But we were dressed for winter and loved to hear it blow in honor of the lady who makes potatoes grow. Our guest, the Irish lady, the tiny Irish lady, the fairy Irish lady that makes potatoes grow. Potatoes were the waiters. Potatoes were the band. Potatoes were the dancers, kicking up the sand. Their legs were old burnt matches. Their arms were just the same. They jigged and whirled and scrambled in honor of the dame. The noble Irish lady who makes potatoes dance. The witty Irish lady, the saucy Irish lady, the laughing Irish lady who makes potatoes prance. There was just one sweet potato. He was golden brown and slim. The lady loved his figure. She danced all night with him. Alas, he wasn't Irish. So when she flew away, they threw him in the coal bin and there he is today, where they cannot hear his sighs, his weeping for the lady, the beauteous Irish lady, the radiant Irish lady who gives potatoes eyes. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Potatoes Dance by Vacheal Lindsey, led for LibriVox.org by Gabriel Lambrick. Downseller said the cricket, I saw a ball last night in honor of a lady whose wings were pearly white. The breath of bitter weather had smashed the cellar pane. We entertained a drift of leaves and then of snow and rain. But we were dressed for winter and loved to hear it blow in honor of the lady who makes potatoes grow. Our guest, the Irish lady, the tiny Irish lady, the fairy Irish lady that makes potatoes grow. Potatoes were the waiters, potatoes were the band, potatoes were the dancers kicking up the sand. Their legs were old burnt matches, their arms were just the same. They jibbed and whirled and scrambled in honor of the dame. The noble Irish lady who makes potatoes dance, the witty Irish lady, the saucy Irish lady, the laughing Irish lady who makes potatoes prance. There was just one sweet potato. He was golden brown and slim. The lady loved his figure. She danced all night with him. Alas, he wasn't Irish. So when she flew away, they threw him in the coal bin and there he is today where they cannot hear his sighs. His weeping for the lady, the beautious Irish lady, the radiant Irish lady who gives potatoes eyes. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Potatoes Dance, by Vacheal Lindsey. Read for LibriVox.org by Harry Cawfield. Down cellar, said the cricket, I saw a ball last night in honor of a lady whose wings were pearly white. The breath of bitter weather had smashed the cellar pane. We entertained a drift of leaves and then of snow and rain. But we were dressed for winter and loved to hear it blow in honor of the lady who makes potatoes grow. Our guest, the Irish lady, the tiny Irish lady, the fairy Irish lady that makes potatoes grow. Potatoes were the waiters, potatoes were the band, potatoes were the dancers, kicking up the sand. Their legs were old burnt matches, their arms were just the same. They jigged and whirled and scrambled in honor of the dame, the noble Irish lady who makes potatoes dance. The witty Irish lady, the saucy Irish lady, the laughing Irish lady who makes potatoes france. There was just one sweet potato. He was golden brown and slim. The lady loved his figure. She danced all night with him. Alas, he wasn't Irish. So when she flew away, they threw him in the cold bin and there he is today. Where they cannot hear his sighs, his weeping for the lady, the beautyous Irish lady, the radiant Irish lady who gives potatoes eyes. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Potatoes Dance by Veitchel Lindsay read for LibriVox.org by Joelle Peebles. Downseller said the cricket, I saw a ball last night in honor of a lady whose wings were pearly white. The breath of bitter weather had smashed the cellar pane. We entertained a drift of leaves and then of snow and rain. But we were dressed for winter and loved to hear it blow in honor of the lady who makes potatoes grow. Our guest, the Irish lady, the tiny Irish lady, the fairy Irish lady that makes potatoes grow. Potatoes were the waiters, potatoes were the band, potatoes were the dancers kicking up the sand. Their legs were old burnt matches, their arms were just the same. They jigged and whirled and scrambled in honor of the dame, the noble Irish lady who makes potatoes dance, the witty Irish lady, the saucy Irish lady, the laughing Irish lady who makes potatoes prance. There was just one sweet potato, he was golden brown and slim. The lady loved his figure, she danced all night with him. Alas, he wasn't Irish, so when she flew away, they threw him in the coal bin, and there he is today, where they cannot hear his sighs, his weeping for the lady, the beauteous Irish lady, the radiant Irish lady who gives potatoes eyes. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Potatoes Dance by Vachelle Lindsay read for LibriVox.org by Lucy Perry. Downseller said the cricket, I saw a ball last night in honor of a lady whose wings were pearly white. The breath of bitter weather had smashed the cellophane's. We entertained a drift of leaves and then of snow and rain. But we were dressed for winter and loved to hear it blow in honor of the lady who makes potatoes grow. Our guest, the Irish lady, the tiny Irish lady, the fairy Irish lady that makes potatoes grow. Potatoes were the waiters, potatoes were the band, potatoes were the dancers, kicking up the sand. Their legs were all burnt matches, their arms were just the same. They jigged and whirled and scrambled in honor of the dame. The noble Irish lady who makes potatoes dance, the witty Irish lady, the saucy Irish lady, the laughing Irish lady who makes potatoes prance. There was just one sweet potato, he was golden brown and slim. The lady loved his figure, she danced all night with him. Alas, he wasn't Irish, so when she flew away, they threw him in the coal bin and there he is today. Where they cannot hear his sighs, his weeping for the lady, the beautious Irish lady, the radiant Irish lady who gives potatoes eyes. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Potato Dance by Vacheal Lindsey. Read for LibreVox.org by Linda Ristig. March 29th, Washington, D.C. www.voicebylinda. Downseller said the cricket. I saw a ball last night. In honor of a lady whose wings were pearly white. The breath of bitter winter had smashed the cellar pane. We entertained a drift of leaves and then of snow and rain. But we were dressed for winter and loved to hear it blow. In honor of the lady who makes potatoes grow. Our guest, the Irish lady, the tiny Irish lady, the fairy Irish lady that makes potatoes grow. Potatoes were the waiters. Potatoes were the band. Potatoes were the dancers, kicking up the sand. Their legs were old burnt matches. Their arms were just the same. They jiggled and whirled and scrambled in honor of the dame. The noble Irish lady who makes potatoes dance. The witty Irish lady, the saucy Irish lady, the laughing Irish lady who makes potatoes prance. There was just one sweet potato. He was golden brown and slim. The lady loved his figure. She danced all night with him. Alas, he was an Irish. So when she flew away, they threw him in the coal bin and there he is today. Where they cannot hear his sighs, his weeping for the lady, the beauteous Irish lady, the radiant Irish lady. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Potatoes Dance by Vachal Lindsey. Read for LibriVox.org by Patty Marie. Downseller said the cricket. I saw a ball last night in honor of a lady whose wings were pearly white. The breath of bitter weather had smashed the cellar pane. We entertained a drift of leaves and then of snow and rain. But we were dressed for winter and loved to hear it blow in honor of the lady who makes potatoes grow. Our guest, the Irish lady, the tiny Irish lady, the fairy Irish lady that makes potatoes grow. Potatoes were the waiters. Potatoes were the band. Potatoes were the dancers kicking up the sand. Their legs were old burnt matches. Their arms were just the same. They jigged and whirled and scrambled in honor of the dame. The noble Irish lady who makes potatoes dance. The witty Irish lady. The saucy Irish lady. The laughing Irish lady who makes potatoes prance. There was just one sweet potato. He was golden brown and slim. The lady loved his figure. She danced all night with him. Alas, he wasn't Irish. So when she flew away, they threw him in the coal bin and there he is today where they cannot hear his sighs, his weeping for the lady, the beauteous Irish lady, the radiant Irish lady who gives potatoes eyes. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Potatoes Dance, by Rachel Lindsay. Read for LibriVox.org by Raven Notation. Down cellar, said the cricket, I saw a ball last night. In honor of the lady whose wings were pearly white, the breath of bitter weather had smashed the cellar pane. We entertained a drift of leaves and then of snow and rain. But we were dressed for winter and loved to hear it glow in honor of the lady who makes potatoes grow. Our guest, the Irish lady, the tiny Irish lady, the fairy Irish lady that makes potatoes grow. Potatoes were the waiters. Potatoes were the band. Potatoes were the dancers, kicking up the sand. Their legs were old burnt matches. Their arms were just the same. They jigged and whirled and scrambled in honor of the dame. The noble Irish lady who makes potatoes dance. The witty Irish lady. The saucy Irish lady. The laughing Irish lady who makes potatoes prance. There was just one sweet potato. He was golden brown and slim. The lady loved his figure. She danced all night with him. Alas, he wasn't Irish. So when she flew away, they threw him in the coal bin. And there he is today, where they cannot hear his sighs. He's weeping for the lady. The beautious Irish lady. The radiant Irish lady who gives potatoes eyes. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Potatoes Dance by Vachère Lindsay read for LibreVox.org by Secrets. Down-seller said the cricket. I saw a ball last night in honor of a lady whose wings were pearly white. The breath of bitter weather had smashed the cellar pane. We entertained a drift of leaves and then of snow and rain. But we were dressed for winter and loved to hear it blow in honor of the lady who makes potatoes grow. Our guest, the Irish lady, the tiny Irish lady, the fairy Irish lady that makes potatoes grow. Potatoes were the waiters. Potatoes were the band. Potatoes were the dancers kicking up the sand. The legs were old burnt matches. Their arms were just the same. They jigged and whirled and scrambled in honor of the dame. The noble Irish lady who makes potatoes dance. The witty Irish lady. The saucy Irish lady. The laughing Irish lady who makes potatoes prance. There was just one sweet potato. He was golden, brown and slim. The lady loved his figure and she danced all night with him. Alas, he wasn't Irish. So when she flew away, they threw him in the coal bin and there he is today. Where they cannot hear his sighs, his weeping for the lady, the beauteous Irish lady, the radiant Irish lady who gives potatoes eyes. End of poem. This recording is in the public domain. The Potatoes Dance by Veitia Lincei read for LibriVox.org by Sufía Laureano, Dublin, March 2009. Downseller said the cricket, I saw a ball last night in honor of a lady whose wings were pearly white. The breath of bitter weather had smashed the seller pain. We entertained the drift of leaves and then of snow and rain, but we were dressed for winter and loved to hear it blow in honor of the lady who makes potatoes grow. Our guest, the Irish lady, the tiny Irish lady, the fairy Irish lady that makes potatoes grow. Potatoes were the waiters, potatoes were the band, potatoes were the dancers kicking up the sand. Their legs were old-burned matches, their arms were just the same, they jicked and whirled and scrambled in honor of the dame, the noble Irish lady who makes potatoes dance. The witty Irish lady, the saucy Irish lady, the laughing Irish lady who makes potatoes prance. There was just one sweet potato, he was golden, brown and slim. The lady loved his figure, she danced all night with him. Alas, he wasn't Irish, so when she flew away, they threw him in the coal bin, and there he is today. Where they cannot hear his sights, he's weeping for the lady, the beautyous Irish lady, the radiant Irish lady who gives potatoes eyes. End of poem.