I know a gastronome named Billy—
he turns his nose up at hot dogs and fries and chili.
In a wok he’ll brown up some tofu
and chew that tasty endive too.

Papas frites Billy will not condone;
he’s chewin’ that endive, not a hambone.
Billy said, “Papas frites bring me down;
I’m chewin’ that endive; I do not frown.”

Endive, endive, endive,
chewin’ that tasty endive.

Manna, manna, sans a cup o’ joe—
he’s chewin’ that endive, just watch him go.
Gourmands like Billy have got to dine
and chew that endive overtime.

Ain’t broccoli or crawdads he likes to eat.
and he doesn’t dig red meat—
such comestibles, he says, ain’t meet,
but out lots of endive he will mete.

Endive, endive, endive,
swoonin’ for tasty endive.

“Billy is silly,” says his good friend Paul
as he watches Billy eschew chewin’ on a meatball.
Paul is chewin’ on a big babyback, though Billy
pleads for endive gastronomy.

Endive, endive, endive,
groovin’ on tasty endive.