And one to the dear baker...
In Seattle you easily find the Muff-baker,
He shines with a heavenly light,
Not ten minutes from an icecar-shaker,
And I can promise he is a bright sight.
You will maybe think he must come from Yemen,
But, oh, no, and neither from Spain,
No, he is born in a country that grows sour lemon,
And HU he is related to hothot Blenda Layne.
He bakes his nomnommuffins every day,
And that is how he let his time fly away,
He seldom is free in his baking-week,
And one can hardly believe he is something of a freak.
He hides his obsessions very soothingly,
And no one uses to see his impunity,
He works as a society-pillar and is rather nice,
When he for his friend China-Chong cooks the rice.
So no one can suspect, that all his good deeds,
Are learned from a fat man from old Leeds,
Or that they also come in a big flow,
From Argentina and a guy called Flavio.
That no-baking guy gives the baker great joy,
When he tries to sing like the Keith Jarret-boy,
Under the dark heaven so full of stars,
The singing will be done without the guitars.
It is something that hardly can be,
Heard when you have your afternoon-tea,
And try to have your nomnom together,
With the sweet Goal and it is not so clever,
To try to hide that you in fact for ever and a day,
Are a Closet-Seattle-Mossmuffin-Bakergay...