Sprabbages

Cabbage mum grew larger,
It was that time of year
When cabbage mums got big and round,
And tiny ones appear.

Cabbage dad beamed proudly
As each green blob popped out
Then shook as a much closer look
Showed each looked like a sprout!

Cabbage mum recoiled in shock
To hear her partner shout:
“Have you strayed from the cabbage patch,
Canoodling with a sprout?”

Cross fertilised indeed, was she
And couldn’t figure out
How it was she’d ended up
With seedlings from a sprout!

For cabbages are vegetables,
They’re green and none too bright
And couldn’t ever comprehend
The gardener’s delight.

“My cross-bred seeds have finally worked!”
The happy gardener shouts:
“Now, shall I call them Sprabbages,
Or shall I call them Scrouts?”

The Rime of the Ancient Gardener

It is an Ancient Gardener,
Leaning on the fence.
“There was a cabbage, once” says he:
His look is most intense.

“A cabbage, once, indeed, there was,”
This man is such a bore.
I can’t escape, I know I’m stuck
For half-an-hour or more.

“This cabbage was a mighty veg”
The Gardener’s droning on.
I listen now with drooping lids
And wished I could be gone.

“It’s getting on, I need to go!
I have to meet my son!”
I try all these excuses, but
The Gardener witters on.

“White fly, white fly, everywhere!”
The Gardener wouldn’t stop.
My eyes are glazed, I’m in a daze,
I’m ready now to drop.

A miracle! Some gentle rain!
The Gardener gives a ‘tut’
And rushes off, a-muttering,
To shelter in his hut.

I, too, depart, with gladdened heart,
But, as I walk away,
I’m sobered by the knowledge
He'll be back another day.

As these recently uncovered first drafts show, William Blake was, amongst his many other talents, a keen cabbage grower...

From: Songs of Cabbages and Expedience

The Sick Cabbage

O Cabbage! You are sick!
A loathsome caterpillar
fat and crawling, hairy stick
Is, I fear, a cabbage killer!

It sought you out
and gores your leaves
I see your holes,
and my heart grieves!


The Cabbage


Cabbage, cabbage, firm and round!
In the cold and sodden ground.
What tiny fragile planted seed
Could grow such sturdy winter feed?

In what distant soil there lies a
Compost heap or fertiliser
Rich enough to feed you so
To build you up and make you grow?

When that Gardener most profound
Scattered seed on fertile ground
Did He foresee, please tell me true,
Did He who made the sprout make you?

Cabbage, cabbage, firm and round!
In the cold and sodden ground.
Such a tiny fragile seed
To grow such sturdy winter feed!

Valentine Cabbage

I bought my love, for Valentine’s,
A perfect single rose.
And she bought me a cabbage,
That’s something, I suppose.

I looked at it in puzzlement,
Uncertain what to do.
She said to me, impatiently:
“Now cook some cabbage stew!”

She handed me a recipe,
Claimed it was the best,
Gave me some ingredients
To ‘add a little zest.’

I toiled within the kitchen
For at least an hour or two.
Cooking to perfection
This special cabbage stew.

The stew smelt most enticing,
As I stirred it in the pot.
Eagerly, I poured some out:
And soon, we’d ate the lot.

We cleared our bowls in minutes
Declared it was delicious
My love said, with a twinkle,
“Tonight, let’s leave the dishes!”

All night long, our passions flared
Our hearts were both aflame.
We stopped, just once, to have more stew,
And then began again.

Since that day, I’ve memorised
The recipe for that stew
So, if our passion starts to wane
I know just what to do.

That’s why, within our garden,
We always leave a row
Of thick, rich soil, all clear of weeds,
For cabbages to grow!

Allotment Fever


I must go down to the allotment again, to the plot where my cabbages grow,
And all I ask is a trowel and a spade, and a packet of seeds to sow.
And a rake and a hoe and some organic spray
And some netting to keep all the pigeons away.

I must go down to the allotment again, for I need to cull the weeds
They’re growing so fast in the sun and the rain, they’re smothering all my seeds.
And all I ask is for weather that is … just exactly right,
And a healthy crop to plump and grow, without any mildew or blight.

I must go down to the allotment again, to put in some hours of toil
Clear slugs away, and snails away, and mulch and enrich my soil.
And all I ask is for soft, moist ground, unsullied by pebble or stone
And for white-fly and pigeons and all other pests, to leave my cabbage alone.

The recent discovery of this first draft of one of the Bard's most famous sonnets may, or may not, shed further light on the identity of the Dark Lady...

Sonnet 18

Shall I compare thee to a Brussel sprout?
Thou art more tasty and more versatile.
Rough winds may shake those round about,
But summer sees you firm, with rounded smile.
Sometimes, as you stand rooted in the soil,
Whitefly and pigeons may assault your leaves,
And, spite of the gardener's eternal toil,
Your heart lies open to nocturnal thieves.
But know there is just one true end for you:
Your destiny is the simmering pot,
As part of a casserole, soup or stew,
Or a nourishing side dish, piping hot.
So long a source of vitamin 'C',
Cabbage, your iron gives long life to me.

Ozycabbages

I met a traveller from an arid land
who said: Upon a strip of loam,
amidst the shale and dust, and sand,
a mighty cabbage once had grown!
Its heart was huge, its leaves were green,
an old man claimed, with wistful looks.
The biggest cabbage ever seen!
Its boiling busied all our cooks!
But now, for all the locals’ talk
no cabbage traces can be found.
Not even one small cabbage stalk
upon that vast and stony ground.