This song has got a moral,
Which I will now impart:
If your nerves are frayed,
Don't rip your dough apart.

Screaming, I make my imprecations:
"Why must I be a mean baker of buns?"

Not often I feel happy.
When I am, just a tad.
And when I burn my baked
Goods, I go mad.

So screaming, with self-interrogations:
"Why must I be a mean baker of buns?"

I'm icing a tiered wedding cake. . .nearly through.
You knock it over; it's toast; and so then I ice you.
I know that my blood pressure's high,
And I am a Type A, too.
Near apoplexy's nigh
When my apple pie crust's goo.

Needing to scarf my medications--
I then am a drugged mean baker of buns.

I'm dry--need some beer. . .drink a case, maybe two.
Then I'm a roaring drunk--this is not good to do,
Because my brain will start to fry.
So I will become a Bhu-
ddist, and I will say goodbye
To the things that made me rue.

Needing to start in meditations,
So I won't be a mean baker of buns.
I'll no more beat on my baked goods and grunt;
I'll no more berate with mean words like. . . .
Spend time in beatitude contemplations.