I’m a brussel sprout … at least, that’s what I used to be,
A little round and squashy, crinkly, green thing, that was me.
My life was uneventful, boring, tedious perhaps,
Though I was generally contented, as were all the other chaps.

Yet I always felt that, somehow, I was missing out,
There must be more to life than being just a brussel sprout.
Sometimes I thought I’d got it, then I wasn’t quite so sure,
It ain’t easy being a brassica who’s feeling insecure.

But one day, not so long ago, it all came together.
No longer did it matter how, or when, or why, or whether
I was round or square, or green or brown, or plain or quite ornate?
A place was meant for me upon my master’s dinner plate.

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Let me tell you the story of how I began
To unravel the mystery of life’s master plan.
I was never much good at philosophical talk …
Well, there isn’t much point when you’re stuck to a stalk.

Sometimes I would envy the birds in the air
And the way that the animals could roam here and there.
I was destined to stay merely part of a bunch,
And I hadn’t yet figured out I was for lunch.

I would study my neighbours and wonder howcome
I wasn’t a marrow, a pea, or a plum.
Who was it ‘ decided that I should be green?
There must be a reason. What does it all mean?

When the sun shone the other plants all looked their best,
They were doing their utmost to outshine the rest.
Runner beans looked so elegant, slim and well bred,
And the tomato said “Hey, look at me. Aren’t I red?”

The blackcurrants seemed to be having some fun,
The strawberries liked a good bask in the sun.
“It ain’t fair,” I thought … with all these good lookers about
Who’d ever take notice of one little sprout?

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Let me tell you about the particular spot
Where I lived, in a very nice vegetable plot,
In the grounds of a mansion, I wasn’t sure where,
But it’s got lots of rooms, I heard someone declare.

I’ve not net the owner, but had often been told
He’s a kindly old gent with a heart of pure gold.
He throws lots of parties, but not for the posh.
In fact, most of his guests need a jolly good wash.

There’s a gardener; I’d frequently seen him about,
I never quite managed to figure him out.
The look in his eyes says he’s been in the wars,
And those marks on his hands are no gardening sores.

Some reckoned that he was a man of great wealth,
Son and heir to the owner … didn’t believe it myself.
I mean, why would he bother to get his hands soiled?
He could be taking it easy while other men toiled.

But there was something about him that set him apart,
Like the way that he’d talk to us all for a start,
And a plant who’d been battered and flattened by rain
By his touch, would be made strong and healthy again.

Most days, he would come out and potter around,
He’d pull up a carrot or three from the ground.
He’d pick one of these, and a couple of those,
I thought “I’ll get picked too if I don’t stay on my toes”.

That’s the good thing about being small, round and green,
When you don’t want to be, you don’t need to be seen.
I’d keep out of the way, “I have got this well sussed”
I would think, as another fresh lot bit the dust.

I’d sit on my perch, looking out, feeling smug,
But what was that noise I could hear from the trug?
They were laughing and singing … this wasn’t quite right!
Surely, they should be worried in their current plight.

Like lightning, it hit me; I’d been such a twit,
This lot knew the meaning of life … THIS WAS IT!
They’d found something good, something I hadn’t got,
And one way or another, I had got to know what!

From then on, no more hiding in my little nest,
I would dance on my stalk like a brussel possessed.
But whatever I did, it just wasn’t enough
To attract his attention … by heck, I felt rough.

I never intended to shout, but eventually
My desperate need got the better of me.
“Oi, you with the trug! Over ‘ere! How about
A delicious, nutritious, intelligent sprout?”

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He bent down and looked me straight in the face,
I broke out in a sweat, my pulse started to race.
This previously eager, self-confident green
Was all of a sudden a great deal less keen.

I found myself saying, “No, no, go away,
I’m not fit to be plucked for the master today”.
He replied, in a voice, which was so tender and kind,
“Just let me be the judge of that, if you don’t mind”.

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So my message to you must be perfectly clear,
Ask Jesus to pick YOU, right now, and right here.
What a wonderful love that must be, that he’s able
To save even me, such a small vegetable.


Keith Miller (1994)