This one is a song...

Hot Potato!

You feel the ache in different places,
Your fingerprints have disappeared,
Leaving you with ten blank padded spaces.
You’re waiting for the winter wind,
To cool the burn and dull the smart,
You’ve got enduring futile pain,
Down to a pretty, patient art.

Like feet that can’t escape the scalding sand,
You can’t drop this hot potato,
That’s burning in your hand.
Hot potato! Hot potato!

You’ve got but one potato,
To last you all your life,
Drop this hot potato,
And you’ll face hunger with a knife.
In seven days the hunger pains
Will make that blade look mighty nice,
Nice enough to slip beneath your veins...
To meet your hot potato in the afterlife.

Like feet that can’t escape the scalding sand,
You can’t drop this hot potato,
That’s burning in your hand.
Hot potato! Hot potato!