I am a gastronome.
What comes from the oven,
there’s no doubt, I am lovin’. . .
that cake from a mold!

I dream of shovin’,
burning with desire,
a whole one in
my open mouth. . .
angelic gâteau.

Make me an angel
food, fine cake gastronomy.
I am a poster
boy for rolled, bloated dough.
’cause I want nothing
that has a verdant hue,
such as lettuce or legumes—
to the garbage it’ll go.

Sometimes I want one swirled
with icing—that is chow joy!
I know it will make me fat,
not a sleek and svelt man.
It’s a glycemic crime,
but at least it ain’t fried.
By my sides the rolls ride
(I am a double [entendre] fan).

Make me an angel
food cake. . .fine gastronomy,
not a foul roaster
(more double—there I go).
’cause I want nothing
that has a verdant hue,
such as lettuce or legumes—
I will disparage them so.

I fly to the kitchen
and shove one in the oven.
I bake no buns—
for such brunch fare I’m no gourmet,
besides, it’s easy to burn ’em,
and they taste awful boring.
That is why I’m leaving
them behind, like parfait.

Make me a bagel?!
That’s “fie on ’t” gastronomy.
Them I don’t go fer—
they’re just boiled, bloated dough.
’cause I want nothing
except what I’ve told you.
So let’s begin the bakin’
Get the cake mold out—let’s go!!