I shan’t recite this poem about
the defenestration of the sprouts.
But on that winter day they flew -
Magnificent as French mange-tout -
From where no sprout had flown before:
The window on the thirteenth floor.

The carrots chatter with the peas,
The cauliflower calms the cheese,
The spinach turns a ghastly green
Just as the beetroot howls and screams,
The lettuce prays, the onions cry,
The broccoli averts its eyes,
The leeks spring up and down, down, down
Hurtle the sprouts towards the ground.

A cabbage turns its leafy head,
Potatoes rise up from their beds,
The existential aubergine
Observes the frantic running beans,
The Celery begins to weep
Whilst dozing parsnips snore and sleep,
Just as the sprouts fall to the earth
An artichoke is giving birth.

Still the sprouts in clusters tumble
Whilst the rhubarb soothes the crumble,
The hoarse radish gives up a growl,
The pumpkin’s grin turns to a scowl,
The courgette and the zucchini
Confuse the turnip and the swede,
The squeamish squash lets out a squeak,
The mighty marrow stands to speak:
”Vegetables of floor thirteen,
The sprouts have flown to pastures green,
As spuds say to he who passes;
Dust to dust, mashes to mashes”.

Down below the sprouts are scattered,
And a lady, greenly spattered,
Gives a helpful demonstration
Of the sprouts’ defenestration.