The Ghost of the Sprout.

The “spout of the brussels”, yesterday I ate,
To Florida It came, long before it was on my plate.

Before that, on a truck, before that, a factory.
But this, my friends, is not the end of the story.

There once was a farm where they spoke Esperanto,
But one day was bought out by the giant, Monsanto!

Good this was for Sprout, for they decided, no doubt, that its seeds would harvest well, and they were right – they did sell!

The little Sprout once,
was attached to a plant,
that grew in the Sun,
bothered much by no one.

It was watered and cared for, all its needs were quite met,
yet like with all things, its Sun would soon set.

And it was harvested and plucked, quite painlessly it seems, and into the factory it went, frozen, packaged and trucked.

But I must end this soon, because it’s getting quite late.

There’s a gas pain I feel!
To the toilet, I must run!

Our Brussels Sprout’s journey will soon come to an end.  It’s been digested by me,
say “Goodbye!” to our friend!

On the seat I do sit, Sprout’s purpose fulfilled.
I can hold it no longer – I can no longer wait!
And out comes the fart, Ghost of the Sprout we once loved.
Into the infinites of air, Sprout Ghost dissipates.

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