The Cream of Wheat, it’s what for breakfast I’m fed.
The Cream of Wheat, it has those lumps that I dread.
The Cream of Wheat, they’re trying to choke me dead, oh no…

You stir in milk, and heap on brown sugar, so nice,
But all those lumps hide deep, I don’t think I’ll survive this bite, this bite…

‘Cause they’re waiting for me.
They’re lurking for me.
Every single bite, I’m striving to restrain
Those lumps made from wheat grain.

The Cream of Wheat, it’s what for breakfast I’m fed.
(what for breakfast I’m fed)
The Cream of Wheat, it has those lumps that I dread.
(has those lumps that I dread)
The Cream of Wheat, should have had oatmeal instead, oh no…

Well, they can’t disguise, that they’re out to get me.
And though the price is cheap, it’s not worth it to me — to die, to die.

‘Cause they’re waiting for me.
They’re lurking for me.
Every single bite, gets stuck about halfway
Obstructing my airway.

I try to heap the sugar on, they won’t leave me alone.
They’re not afraid of milk flotation, though their cover’s blown.
They try to flee, they try to hide, those foul farina clumps.
What does transmute that pasty sludgy slurry into lumps?

‘Cause mom’s hating on me.
She’s cooking for me.
Every single day, to choke me is her aim.
For my insurance claim.

The Cream of Wheat, it’s what for breakfast I’m fed.
The Cream of Wheat, it has those lumps that I dread.
The Cream of Wheat, full of laryngeal warheads.
The Cream of Wheat (of wheat, of wheat)
The Cream of Wheat (of wheat, of wheat)