They touched my mouth: vile vittles chef cooks—
I bit into his shepherd’s pie.
It sucked. . .lunch blew. . .vile vittles chef cooks,
And afterwards I spit mouth dry.
It had wretched taste to me.
I look down on this petty churlish clown.
He’d poisoned me; a jail should hold him.

Galling is his mock-turtle soup,
Deer that’s game he’ll overfry.
Fare’s junk—don’t fress the ogre’s stew, oh no!

There ain’t no grill for vile vittles chef cooks
Unless there are smoke alarms.
You’ll eat, hurl from vile vittles chef cooks;
Blowing will be his loathsome lunch.
Don’t touch his babybacks—
You’ll need a stomach pump. Then there’s his prawns!
Fare bad—lunch heaves.

Galling is his godawful soup. . .
Hear his name and I start to cry
Fare’s junk—don’t fress the ogre’s roux, oh no!

Don’t touch his lamb that’s racked
You’ll need a stomach pump. Then there’s his naan!
Fare bad—lunch heaves.

Galling is his godawful mousse. . .
Hear his name and I start to cry.
Fare’s junk—don’t fress the rogue’s au jus, oh no!

Vile vittles chef cooks.
I’ll shut my mouth: vile vittles chef cooks. . .
Won’t give his toxic touch a try:
They suck. . .won’t chew vile vittles chef cooks,
And instead I will swill stout, rye.
They have pleasant taste to me;
I’ll gulp down bev’rage; churlish clown
Won’t poison me; a jail should hold him.

Galling is his godawful soup. . .
Hear his name and I’ll start to fly
Fare’s junk, don’t fress—best to eschew, oh yeah!