Skip to a minute in. Turn up the volume turn it down after he says thank you.
And the angel of the lord came unto me, snatching me up from my place of slumber.
And took me on high, and higher still until we moved to the spaces betwixt the air itself.
And he brought me into a vast farmlands of our own Midwest.
And as we descended, cries of impending doom rose from the soil.
One thousand, nay a million voices full of fear. And terror possessed me then
And I begged, "Angel of the Lord, what are these tortured screams?"
And the angel said unto me, "These are the cries of the carrots, the cries of the carrots!
You see, Reverend Maynard, tomorrow is harvest day and to them it is the holocaust."
And I sprang from my slumber drenched in sweat like the tears of one million terrified brothers and roared,
"Hear me now, I have seen the light! They have a consciousness, they have a life, they have a soul! Damn you!
Let the rabbits wear glasses! Save our brothers!"
Can I get an amen? Can I get a hallelujah? Thank you Jesus
This is necessary
This is necessary
Life feeds on life feeds on life feeds on life feeds on...
Don't Slay that Potato Words and Music by Tom Paxton
How can you do it? It's heartless, it's cruel.
It's murder, cold-blooded, and gross.
To slay a poor vegetable just for your stew,
Or to serve with some cheese sauce on toast.
Have you no decency? Have you no shame?
Have you no conscience, you cad?
To rip that poor vegetable out of the earth,
Away from its poor mom and dad?
Oh, no, don't slay that potato!
Let us be merciful, please.
Don't boil it or fry it, don't even freeze-dry it.
Don't slice it or flake it.
For God's sake, don't bake it!
Don't shed the poor blood,
Of this poor helpless spud.
That's the worst kind of thing you could do.
Oh, no, don't slay that potato,
What never done nothing to you!
Why not try picking on something your size,
Instead of some carrot or bean?
The peas are all trembling there in their pod,
Just because you're so vicious and mean.
How would you like to be grabbed by your hair,
And ruthlessly yanked from your bed,
And have done to you God knows what horrible things,
To be eaten with full-fiber bread?
It's no bed of roses, this vegetable life.
You're basically stuck in the mud.
You don't get around much. You don't see the sights,
When you're a carrot or celery or spud.
You're helpless when somebody's flea-bitten dog,
Takes a notion to pause for relief.
Then somebody picks you and cleans you and eats you,
And causes you nothing but grief.
There ought to be some way of saving our skins.
They ought to be passing a law.
Just show anybody a cute little lamb,
And they'll all stand around and go "Aw!"
Well, potatoes are ugly. Potatoes are plain.
We're wrinkled and lumpy to boot.
But give me a break, kid. Do you mean to say,
That you'll eat us because we're not cute?