In the town of Franklin,
On the third Week in September.
You’ll find a festival,
With food to always remember.
There is pork barbecue,
A stand serving a fine crab cake.
But nothing can compare,
To one that takes hours to bake.
The lowly potato,
So plain and inconspicuous.
Yet, stands out from the crowd,
As, by far, the most delicious.
Gone are the hamburgers,
The Methodist grillers are through.
Their stand is now long gone,
Presbyterian hotdogs too.
One of the last church stands,
Sticks to a game plan tried and true.
Undeterred by changes,
Is that of Martin Luther’s crew.
Get it with some butter,
Some homemade chili, if you please.
Pepper it green with chives,
Make orange with liquid cheese.
Remember the sour cream,
Amazing with just a dollop.
Any way you want it,
It really packs a wallop.
Every year we eat it,
It has become so iconic.
Can’t be duplicated,
And we think that seems ironic.
So what is the secret?
Was it from Lutherans of yore?
Back to the beginning?
Did it get nailed to someone’s door?
This unlikely tale,
Of the perfect festival dinner.
May seem like a stretch,
But can assure you its a winner.
The secret that makes it worth the price.
If spuds are the base,
There’s no doubt nostalgia is the spice.
Whatever the reason,
To that stand, I suggest you march.
You will never regret,
Filling up on five dollars of starch.