In Celebration of Brussel Sprouts

I hear the thunder of the 12:27 London train
approaching Colchester station 1958,
I think of Brussel sprouts.

I hear Billy Cotton in my mind
shouting,” Wakey Wakey”
and I think of Brussel sprouts.

Old men coughing and mumbling
in the Rose and Crown at lunchtime,
I think of Brussel sprouts.

Alan Breeze singing,
“Bangers and mash”
and the smell of burnt gravy,
I think of Brussel sprouts.

Sadly, I don’t like Brussel sprouts anymore.

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