The chef came spinning down the road,
not one moment too late la la.
Yet too soon it seemed for a toad in the hole,
he beat through the heather and gorse la la.
Whipped up with ease canapes, crepes,
light as the air he breathed la la.
While deep beneath waves of a languid sea,
lay coral the colour of cream la la.
He made his way home under milky white skies,
arriving in time for tea la la.
Where raisin bread and a large treacle tart,
accompanied him up to his dreams la la.