When I was just a little lad,
Certain things made me mad.
Mum, she’d scream, dad he shouts,
“Eat your bleedin’ Brussel Sprouts! ”
So I’d place one in my mouth.
Down my throat heading south,
Hit my Stomach and of course,
Brussel Sprout: heading north.
like a bullet it flew out,
That bleedin’ rotten Brussel Sprout.
Across the table it did fly,
Hit my father in the eye.
Then my father gave a clout,
I didn’t eat, that Brussel Sprout.
Now; mum and dad they don’t shout,
“Eat that bleedin Brussel Sprout! ”
With mum and dad I’ve made some deals
No more Sprouts with my meals.
James Asher
http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/brussel-sprout/
