Brussels Sprouts. The poetry of insomnia.

Christmas is over.
Put aside your Brussels sprouts
For another year.

Or live rebelliously.
Eat sprouts in summer
Herb steamed, unashamed.
Flaunt the conventions of glad tidings.
Sing your sproutish comfort and joy.

Create Thomas More food.
A vegetable for all seasons.
Die for your sprout centred religion.

The spaniel of harvest festivals,
The culinary Pekingese.
A sprout is for life, not just Christmas.


Disclaimer: I don’t like sprouts. More than that, I detest them. The smell and taste both bring me close to being physically sick. Psychologically they also remind me tonight of the smell of my grandparents’ house where it seemed the Sunday roast vegetables had been boiled for eternity.

I don’t eat sprouts at Christmas. I don’t regret a lack of spring sprouts and autumn is a time I can happily restrain myself from giving myself a big bowl of buttered sprouts as a treat. In short, I am extremely sproutphobic.

The poem does not reflect the views of the writer. It’s the product of confusion in a night of insomnia. Yay for questionable mental health.

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