Our Tater, who farts in sevens,
Hashbrowned be thy name.
Our dingdong tones,
Our fries be done,
In girth as they are in length.
Give us this starch,
Our daily fed,
And forgive us our frying oils,
As we forgive those who pass taters past us,
And bleed us not into convection,
But deliver us from weevils.
D-Scan.