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...

Until...

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...

Then...

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...