Brassica Blues 

 

Phelonious Michael Barrington Smythe

Was the kinda guy you'd like on your side

In a brawl or a bussup or even a duel

He was not only good looking but incredibly cool.

He spoke Yoruba, Yiddish and even Swahili.

He could masticate cactus and made incredible tea.

But surprisingly so, for a man of his years

He couldn’t say “cabbages” without pouring with tears.

Each time that he tried, his tongue became tied

Up with big knots, which were hard to abide

And stopped poor old Smythe right there in his tracks,

He became cabbage‑a‑phobic and had brassic attacks.

 

His condition grew worse and steadily worser

He could stand it no more, and enrolled as a purser.

In charge of the office and various things

Phelonious's worries began to leave him.

Until he glanced down at the passenger list

And saw, with great fear, as if in a mist,

A convention was planned to take to the sea

Of brassica experts and lovers of “C”.

To talk and to listen with cabbagy-drive

Poor Barrington Smythe felt less than alive

And went into decline in record quick time.

His hands they were sweating; his face like a lime.

Looking like Shrek while facing this scene

He murmured in Yiddish “this feels like a dream”.

On top of his fear began palpitations,

Pushing him into a worse situation.

He sat down to eat and there with his meal

Was a portion‑controlled of the “C” vegetable

Which promptly made him feel unable

To carry on, to tarry there.

I must go he did declare and made his way to open deck

And shoved two fingers down his neck.

But for poor Smythe it was too late,

He'd gone too far, it was his fate.

His phobia worsening, he began to shake.

His whole metabolism it did quake

Until in a moment of relative calm

He felt a touch upon his arm.

 

"Are you allergic to something my old friend?

Together this phobia we could end

Is it something you've eaten, my old mate?"

"Yes, it was “K”, “K”, “K”... yes it was something I ate."

 

"Please let me introduce myself to you

I'm Thaddeus Babbage, quite well known in these parts

As Secretary‑General of the W.C.O. and also a pianist;

Quite accomplished you know."

Phelonious politely shook the man's hand

"There's something I need you to understand.

I'm allergic, reactive and generally anti

I’ve become a bit of a veg vigilante

Especially to spinach, parsnips and carrots.

But the veg that I fear more than this lot

Is…Is..., I can't even say it without having hot flushes

Feeling horribly ill and blushing with rushes.

It brings tears to my eyes, I feel terribly ill

It's not just a phobia; it's sapping my will.

My will to continue, my will to go on

My will to keep living. I'm all woebegone."

 

"I've read of this problem and it's part of our mission

To research and find cures for this awkward condition"

Said Thaddeus Babbage, "in order to heal

The start of the treatment; is to think of a meal.

Imagine yourself as a lion stuffed with fresh meat

With gore on your nose, your lips and your feet

Now imagine the change, which for so long you’ve waited

Your digestion all sound and not constipated.

Your complexion is healthy your fur's all aglow

You're feeling much better and your blood pressure's low.

You're no longer lethargic; you're now full of beans,

Your whiskers all bristly and your paw-pads agleam."

 

As Babbage he spoke Phelonious wondered

If all this were true, if his problems were sorted

Or if he was sleeping and having a dream

From which he’d awake with a jolt and a scream.

But suddenly as he was thinking it through

Ol' Babbage produced from the depths of his shoe

A cabbage. It was only minute and perfectly rounded

The shape of a sphere, a cabbage for sure

And greener than green; vegetably pure.

 

"Close your eyes, put out your hand"

Babbage commanded, "before we reach land.

In order your treatment will work to the max

You need to trust me and be very relaxed.

Now say after me, “K” one, “K” two, and “K” three.

That's the “c” mastered all done and dusted.

And now for the “ab”; don't be disgusted,

It's only the start, not the whole word.

You're still only “cab‑ing”, so don't be deterred.

That bit comes later, when you're sufficiently bold."

Phelonious stuttered and spluttered and strove.

He tried to say, “cab” when lo and behold!

It simply popped out from his mouth as foretold,

Like an antelope licking and preening its young

Or a pregnant wildebeest producing a son.

"I can say “cab”, I can do it! he shouted.

Let us move on so I'm no longer blighted

By brassica‑phobia, by fear of green leaves

By hatred of veggies which give me DTs."

 

"Now slowly" said Babbage, "the next step is harder

You need to say “age" quite clearly with ardour."

Once this was done Phelonious's breathing

Began to speed up, his eyes were beseeching.

"You know what comes next, said the brassica sage

You need to join 'cab' with the word 'age'."

Controlling his courage and all of his nerves

Phelonious summoned all his reserves

His last ounce of strength and Smythian spirit

And pushed his green‑phobia right to the limit.

 

"If I join 'cab' with 'age' what simply arises

Is no more than a word, no more surprises.

It's descriptive of veg with leaves intertwined

Like an enormous green rose mixed up in your mind."

"That's neat. Keep it up. Keep those thoughts moving

The word is appearing, keep on with your schmoozing."

As he relaxed and faced up to his fear

Phelonious heard a quiet voice in his ear.

"Say it, just say it, and say it again

“Cab” and “age”, “cab” and “age”, it's almost…" and then!

Bingo! It happened, the word it came out

Of Phelonious's mouth; it was more of a shout.

"Cabbage! Oh! cabbage. Of cabbage and kings

To speak of this veg is a wonderful thing.

I'm no longer disabled in a vegetable‑way

I'm sorted, I'm hopeful that I'm cured on this day.

I'm hopeful from now of being well fed

Of eating a portion of meat and two veg."

 

With this, he broke down, and fell to the ground.

"Thank you dear Babbage for being around

In the hour of my want, when I most needed clues,

You've cured me of illness and brassica blues."

Looking around to shake that man's hand

Phelonious turned; I don't understand

There was nobody there on that wide deck

But gone was that millstone from round his poor neck.