How the smell will swirl into my rhinal world;
They won’t burn if temp’s not too hot—
Olfactor spell I’m in, not that of Jay Hawkins,
A catchy song to which oft turn my thoughts.

I can tell they’re warm by how the air currents storm
Around from oven’s ceiling to its floor.
And soon they’ll touch my lips, taking time off from quips
And beseeching for what I most adore.

Oh I smell those tarts, nice tasty bakey tarts;
From my oven all bundts are banned.
I’ll never quell those tarts, those tasty bakey tarts—
I need not tell you: buns are banned.
[Es]chew. . . .

I get bellicose if the smell in my nose
Ain’t embellished with the odor of egg
Whose yellow yolk’s a gift that fills the lipid rift
In pallid sifted vittles stripped of [vitamin] A.

Compelling is the grease that helps your gullet ease
Propelled plumped-up provender all the way
Down to that well where lie gastric juices that bind
To food and help exude rude poo away.

Oh I smell those tarts, nice tasty bakey tarts;
I love to cuddle in my hands
Those always welcome tarts, those tasty bakey tarts—
I love them more in tummy land,
Chew. . . .

I relish tarts, those tasty bakey tarts—
Large bites, then upfilling I am.
Chew. . . .