Not a patch on John's, but this comp isn't really my bag.
Sprouts
A callous Flemish trader
Brought us sprouts from overseas,
And now our Yuletide’s nadir
Is a soggy heap of these.
Each Christmas, green and haggard,
I remember how I hurled
Them up last year. I’m staggered
God allows them in our world.
My turkey’s left as tarnished,
Roasted spuds are pushed away,
And all because they’re garnished
With these horrid things; when they
Get served all goes uneaten.
No food merits less regard;
A five-starred chef can’t sweeten
Them or change their stench to nard.
Last edited by Rob Stuart; 01-13-2014 at 03:14 AM.
|