Thursday, 15 November 2012

The Humble, Gentle Sprout

I am a humble, gentle sprout,
I mean no ill or harm;
How can I be of any threat?
You can fit me in your palm!

I am a simple, healthy veg,
Little sister of a cabbage.
I do not wish to hurt or maim;
I am not wild or savage...


I see a BOFmobile. 
Chrome glinting in the sun.
Then my placid air wears thin
And my calmness comes undone.
I feel a rage build in my stalk,
My leaves begin to twitch;
Darkness creeps throughout my veins
And my layers start to itch.

I see the tinted windows gleam;
I note the linen jacket.
Chelsea boots of finest hide
That cost a fecking packet.
Filofax on the passenger seat
Listing several dinner dates;
Financial Times in the back
With circled shares and rates...


I know what I must do.
I have to make a stand.
Protect the innocent from the BOFs
And purify our land.

I leap towards the windscreen,
War-cry booming from my soul.
No more pacifistic thoughts;
My heart as black as coal.
I hit the target with a SPLAT
Obscuring the BOF's vision;
He swerves onto the muddy verge
And I cackle in derision.

Then night falls upon me;
I'm broken; start to fade.
But as my purée clouds the glass
I know my point's been made.

I may have been a single hit;
A solitary message,
But I will not be the last to fight
And instil a fearful presage. 

How can I scare a BOF, you ask?
Make them shake and twitch their snouts?
It's simple, oh dear reader:
BOFs are terrified of sprouts.

For all their grand bravado,
Their armour has a chink.
They're too intent on following trends 
And worrying what others think.

Sprouts, of course, are not well-liked
And folks are quick to state
That sprouts are something they abhor;
They deeply, truly hate.

So naturally, a BOF will follow
The consensus of the masses;
Not wishing to daringly deviate
From their piers and higher classes.

And that, O brothers, is how we fight.
Give the bourgeois bunch a clout.
The BOFs will never beat this nemesis:
The 'humble', 'gentle' sprout...

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