Once upon a prison kitchen, as I cook for sinners, bitchin'
Over many a pail and tedious volume of half-rotten boar
As they swallowed, nearly choking, suddenly I started hoping
That I hadn't left the cookies, burning in the oven door
This is sinister, I shuddered, burning in my oven door

Eating this but cravin' s'mores

I remember I'd forgotten, guess it shows my brain is rottin'
As each separate burning cookie crumbled down upon the floor
Miserly I eye disaster, somehow I had cooked them faster
From their looks now hard as plaster, plaster what were once s'-mores
For right there the furious flaming tomb the oven flamed s'-mores

Burning them, I made some more

And the milk had sadly curdled, lumpy, stomach loudly gurgled
Gagged me, tagged me with bombastic tremors never felt before
"Tis some curlded milk repeating, exiting my stomach door
Just some curdled milk repeating, exiting my stomach door "

Sour it was, and that's fer shore

Hungrily my crave grew stronger, 'gurgitating milk no longer
"Well," said I, "can't eat 'em," guess I'll have to make some more
'Cause the first ones were too crunchy, and I madly have the munchies
And so quickly I start fixing, shove them in the oven door

Flaming soon were my s'-mores

Weeping at the dark mess, leering, long I stood there weeping, swearing
Pouting, screaming screams no convict ever dared to scream before
Guess the oven must be broken, 'cause the cookies sat there, smokin'
With a spatula I'm pokin' at the blistered, burned s'-mores

Nearly bliss, but now no more

Back into the kitchen, churning, in the bowl I hope I'm learning
Soon again I smell the burning, somewhat stronger than before
"Dammit", said I, "Dammit, there is something in my oven that is
Broken, guess the thermostat is causing blistering s'-mores
I will fix it in a minute" and those blistering s'-mores?

Threw 'em out and made some more

Open do I fling the oven, then with many a curse I shove in
When in stepped 'ol Martha Stewart, she of saintly days no more
Would the stock malfeasance make her now a self redeeming baker
There the queen of yore, the faker, lurked in front of oven door
Lurched upon the crumbs of cookies littering my kitchen floor

Lurched, and stared, at burning s'mores

Then this old cookin' chick stood frowning at my cookies way past browning
To the trash we chuck and throw them, in the prison garb we wore
(Martha) "Though your s'mores are black as raisins, I bet that you're still a-cravin'
Watch me work, you will be ravin', cravin' my delicious s'mores
Tell me what your ovens' game is, burning these pedestrian s'mores

You will burn them nevermore"

As I'm waiting there un-proudly she began to curse so loudly
Through the oven peeking little burning lumps of s'more
So I ran for help I'm fleeing, not believing what I'm seeing
Even now old Martha's seething...burned another batch of s'mores
Burned 'em beyond recognition, worse than those I burned before

Black as night, were her s'-mores

Now the Martha's spraying spittle, on her flaccid bust, said little
Just a phrase, as if her soul was in these words she did implore
Nothing poignant did she utter, no more curse words did she mutter
As I slowly paced and puttered, sweeping crumbs up from the floor
For my recipe she asked me, as her pride flew out the door

"WHAT THE HELL ARE IN THESE S'MORES?"

Shaken by her loud exalting, my reply was "I use saltine
Crackers, no choice in the matter, Grahams are never stocked or stored"
(MARTHA) "Tastes like some ungodly plaster, it's a pitiful disaster"
(ME)"Swallow fast, then swallow faster, then it doesn't taste so poor
'Cause I spray 'em with some paint, so they resemble real S'mores"

She then fainted on the floor

Now the Martha shows confusion, at my clever substitution
Mashed potatoes for marshmallows, in the middle of my s'mores
And brown chalk dust for the choc-late, suddenly she spit and hawked it
(Me) "Unlike you we have to fudge it, as our budget's cut once more"

She's still gagging, on the floor

There she sat, enraged and cussing, as I, silly boy, start fussing
As her scowling fiery eyes now burn just like my flaming s'mores
Then and there she to the trash points, my next batch had hit the flash point
Even oven mittens flaming from those frickkin' burnin' s'mores
Damn those mittens vi-lent flare up from their touching flaming s'mores

(Martha)"DON'T YOU MAKE THEM, NEVERMORE!"

Now I thought, her hair is grayer, prob-ly from the smoke in layers
She slips on the crumbs, her foot falls, splayed out on the kitchen floor
"Bitch," she cries, "my God will rent thee! With these convicts He has sent me"
I said "Hell, you just resent me from the poisoning of the s'mores
Though my cooking's a disaster, in this kitchen I'm your master
When I tell you 'scrub it faster', you will do it"...here she swore

Cursed the Martha, "Damn the chores!"

"PROFIT!" said I, "Gave you power, here it's twenty cents an hour
Whether stamping plates, or whether washing sheets in laundry o're
Though you had more than you wanted, still you made the call, undaunted
Now your home's this prison, haunted, tell me truly, I implore
Is there cinnamon in carrot cake? And what is wrong with these s'-mores?"

Martha left and slammed the door

"Profit!" says I, "Martha's evil!"- profit shill, or else the devil
Why in hell did she deceive us, why the truth did she abhor?
Surely she ain't like Bin Laden, but against the truth was plottin'
As they grabbed her tainted hand,she's searching cookie jar for more
Just a brazen greedy maiden, reaching in the jar for more

Just rich Martha, wanting more

(Martha) "Give my word, I'm through with cheating, cash demeans," I heard her bleating
(Me) "Get thee back into the kitchen, for the night's draconian chores
Leave no black flame as you're bakin', do not lie I'll know you're fakin'
Dump the cookies, put the cake in, sweep the crumbs outside the door
Pull the stake out of your heart and get yer ass to makin' s'mores"

Quoth the Martha..."Never s'mores"

So the Martha, never weeping, still is sweeping, still is sweeping
With a solid heart of callus, just inside the kitchen door
But her eyes still have the scheming, of the public trust she's reaming
Of the spotlight she's still dreaming, but it's lockdown on the floor
And us poor souls in the prison, we lay gloating on the floor

We're still waiting...on S'-mores