Oh, brussel sprouts, you tiny balls of green,
Your taste and smell doth make my senses wane,
In soups and roasts, your presence is seen,
But to my palate, you bring only disdain.

A mini cabbage, you try to deceive,
But in truth, your flavor is far from grand,
In butter or bacon, you still make me grieve,
I'd rather eat sand or the back of my hand.

Nutritious virtues you may possess,
But to my taste buds, you bring only sorrow,
In salads or stews, you cause distress,
I'd rather eat a shoe or a jar of mayo.

Oh, brussel sprouts, you vegetables of dread,
I'd rather eat a hat or a loaf of bread.

Penned by my hand on the 19th of Lupar, in the year 956 AF.