Think not of burgers on the floor
Think not of the ten-second rule
Because beyond every fry
Without salt is a cry
And a desperation so damn cold
Leave that restaurant open
And mourn the death of that chip
As it lays in a puddle
Of its ketchup, so in trouble
At least it will reside in fast-food heaven

Potato-oh
Potato-oh
Potato-oh
Potato-oh

Think not of burgers on the floor
Think not of fast-food chains
May the fry, rest in peace
And if you, need a squeeze
There's ketchup right beside me

Potato-oh
Potato-oh
Potato-oh
Potato-oh

Woah-oh-oh