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