A Day In The Life Of A Christmas Sprout

You leave me and my friends sitting in the produce aisle,
For most of the calendar year;
But then December comes along and you go all Delia,
Think you can cook my lovely green sphere.

Try hard as you might, you always get it wrong,
Either too soft or too hard.
One year you even tried something different,
You grated me with bacon and lard.

But out we go on Christmas Day,
All soggy ready to be served;
Displayed in your best porcelain china,
We all feel a little unnerved.

Who will try us this year,
Mixed in with some cranberry sauce?
Will it be the boy who picks his nose,
Or Tinsel Tits who's always sloshed?

Some of us made it out alive,
Left on the plate to play,
But that's not the end of my tale,
Not yet, anyway.

For at the end of the day we were put in a bowl,
In front of Buster the dog;
He licked us all so eagerly
And digested us into a log.

So now we are all mushed up inside,
This is when we have our revenge;
For years and years as seasonal vegetable,
We let off a terrible stench.

Yes Buster the dog, go sit next to them,
And fart our toxic smell all night;
That's what happens when you don't cook us properly,
Serves you all bloody right.

Merry Christmas
From a bittersweet Sprout
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