Ode to the Brussels Sprout
Ode to the Brussel Sprout
Oh noxious, bitter, green and gaseous orbs
Maligned and loved by the British hordes
Who will crucify your delectable taste
Boil you to death into a tasteless waste
You hide away until Christmas comes round
When they wake you, and rip you from the ground
For a couple of days you are the king at dinner
Along with the roast, you are surely the winner
The leftovers enjoyed as “bubble and squeak”
We’ll probably eat them for another week
The after effects of sprout eating starts
When you try to disguise your malodorous farts
Sweet scented candles are surreptitiously lit
To disguise the crime, for which nobody will admit
You are the veg people love or hate
So please don’t put any on my plate.
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