Rind, rind, rind seized from the lemon tree.
Is my cooking sound
When I’m on a porridge spree?
There’s no hardtack for me.
I’m cooking down grease that’s brown,
And this pie is a hasty baking venture.

Beer I’d sampled to calm me hand.
Downed five; I’m blitzed, pie-eyed,
I’ve found in me a wetter side;
The suds were all canned. . .
Carry a Bud in my hand.

I slug it down. . .free, unwound,
I’m pie-eyed for this hasty baking venture.

Tangy are those hops, my friend.
They will tweak your buds, I say,
The “taste”. . .double entendre play.
Simply upend
That can and swill it again.
Cooking hound, abattoir nigh;
I field a swipe, and my Bichon lost its life.

Ah, seasoned “game” and a beanery,
Eating Fido repastingly. . .
Was a chop and dismember spree,
Then it was convection time.
Stuffed him in that empty pit,
Extended on a tempting spit. . .
To the pup, unkind—
Bingeing on doggy, not swine.

I’d cooked the hound, wolfed him down,
And my Fi-do a tasty baking venture.

Wolfed him down, eating hound,
A repast that’s fit for the crown. . . .

Woof!