Yucky mold’s not nice;
It ills me to sacrifice soured grub.

(It’s wretched as nads lice
Some lays, you pay the price. . .try blows.)

So green is this pork! It happens in this clime.
Yeck! Yeck! Must close the fridge door or there’ll be purple rime.
Can’t dig it off—gross! Just throw it away.
(Argh! Argh!) This course unappealing; it makes me turn gray.

Yucky mold’s not nice;
Don’t thrill me to sacrifice soured grub.

So grievous the chore; it happens every time.
Yes, yes! You don’t close the door. And then there’s purple slime
On the pig that I roast. Just throw it away.
(Barf! Barf!) This pork’s unappealing; it makes me turn gray.

(Mold’s not nice) That roe you won’t scarf,
(Mold, mold’s not [rot] nice) That’s moldy rice you see,
(Mold, mold, mold! Rot, rot! Not nice)

I see moldy rice and roe,
Moldy rolls—not nice, you know,
Slimy, moldy rice must go,
Moldy old rolls, gross, them throw,
Mold’s not at all nice, you know,
Moldy pulled pork is gross, must go,
Mold grows on the ice, you know!
Moldy old sole you trolled must go,
Mold grows on the spice, so throw,
Moldy rolled dough must go, so throw. . . .