Oh, institutionalised vegstable of choice, How wonderful, wet and moiste, You fluted bundle of nutritious joy, Brings bright colour, to the cheeks of girl and boy, In dark cells, with no light of day, You make even doctor Lector, feel happy and gay, To lick ones lips with anticipation, You bold reliever of constipation, On harp strings, those of death row, sing your praise, As in that boiling pot you laze, And those who leave her majesties leisure, Talk of the infinte cabbage pleasure, Alone the handsome prisoner rugged, About to be woefully buggered, Oh, how he waits to be let out, And finally savour your child ... the sprout