During my immortal pre-adolescence,
it was a self-authenticated truth:

Brussel Sprouts were nasty!
Neither tasty
nor healthy.
Just as I was positive,
in my childhood,
of the repugnance of spinach.

(To Hell with Pop-eye!)

Later,

I aged into the belief
that,
though
Brussel Sprouts were,
possibly,
good for me,
they were constitutionally incapable
of palatability.

Now,

much older and a little wiser,

I believe that Brussel Sprouts are,

nutritional,

(I’ll give them that, anyway)

despite their ability
to generate the inevitable gas,
just like their evil twin,
asparagas,
and,
can be cooked to taste
reasonable.
Enough to be swallowed
without gaging,
anyway.

Thus,
given the consistent evolution
of my contrarian thinking
in all things and gastronomical,

I will be,
I am sure,
utterly convinced,
two breaths before my final one,
that death is but an illusion.
This presumption based on
my previously fluctuating faith
in an unsubstantiatable resurrection
and my conversion to the belief
that there are no atheists
facing the business-ends
of a firing-squads
rifle-barrels.

“Attention’!”

“Listo!”

“Fuego!”

And that I will pass on
into that great vegetable garden
beyond the galaxies
carrying the certainties
of the eternal
magnificence of

Salvation-

and Brussel Sprouts.