The ginger I find,
Then the thyme
For the flounder.
Poach in gin,
Cut off fin.

The soufflé ain't strong,
Would be wrong
So you must not
Stick fork through--
Do not do.

That would make me ill;
I would fill with enmity.
And I would say,
"That's outré, my enemy."
So I'll be on to ham,
A culinary man,
Culinary man.

I steam franks in beer. . .
Also hair
Of the dog; swirls
Round--I drink,
Then can't think.

My roast's overdone,
So's the bun.
Well, there's lunch meat
Got a pong;
Eat it. . .wrong!

So it makes me ill,
I unfill. . .I unbind me.
Make it halfway
Ere the spray from my heinie.
So my seat's on the can. . .
A colon-airy man,
Colon-aerie man.