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