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...

This Time, It's Personal

Up until recently, the BOFs were fairly safe.  To us, they were a breed to be quietly loathed from a safe distance.  However, our semi-pacifistic approach to the linen-wearing, Chelsea boot-polishing, bacon-scoffing ilk has been blown out of the window.  This is the dawn of a new war.

The other day, Coyote was pootling about minding his own business.  The sun was shining and the birds were singing (they like Roger Whittaker songs); everything was right with the world.  Monty was purring happily and Limmy - our dashboard dwelling guard sheep - was enjoying the gentle ride through the countryside when BAM!  A Freelander thundered past hogging the narrow road, taking Monty's offside wing mirror casing with it. 

We are not happy.  Thankfully, Monty will be fixed when he goes to be manhandled by an oil-covered gog in Dolgellau on Saturday; but that's not the point.  The point is that a BOF broke Monty.  

As yet, we're not sure how we're going to seek revenge.  All we know for sure is that the BOFs have now crossed the line and justice will be served.  No longer will we merely shout 'BEOUGH!' and laugh when we see one.  Oh no.  They've unwittingly driven into our battle zone and we will find a way to avenge Monty's injuries. 

In fact, it seems that Limmy's already on the case...

We might have to rein him in a bit, actually.  As much as we like his line of thought, we're not quite as violent as he is.  He had a harsh upbringing, you see.  He was born in the wilds of Mid Wales and had to fight to be King of the Sheep.  He's seen sights that would scar the strongest minds; he's fought in battles that would end the life of an ordinary sheep in the tap of a hoof...and he came out on top with battered horns.  When he moved to Limerick he formed a bloodthirsty sheep Mafia that drove Terry Wogan out of the city in a cloud of blinding fear.  Limmy is a hard case.  As much as we love him and are relieved that he's on our side, we do have to watch him.  He may be small in stature, but his loathing for BOFmobiles exceeds even our black disdain; in fact, we think he must've had a bad experience with a BOFmobile in his past, but he won't talk about it.  He doesn't talk about much, really.  Probably because he's a clay figurine. 

Plotting continues.  Coyote and I have five days coming up in which to formulate our retaliation.  Revenge - however it's sought - will be sweeter than a sleeping marshmallow puppy on a bed of candyfloss.