There was a house with fumes of yeast--
The smell of rising buns
And baguettes that you could use to make a poor boy*
You'd gobble, then need Tums.

My uncle was a baker--
So-so one, it seemed.
You ate his wares, you gambled, man,
Especially puffs of cream.

Now one thing that a baker needs
For a fruitcake is dried plums.
When unc. made one at Christmas time,
It tasted like hard chum.

My uncle nearly killed us
When he put in 'bout a ton
Of good ole Fleischmann's active dry yeast--
House was blitzed by the rising buns.

Well, the house now has a flattened form,
Like it's hit by a train.
Unc. won't be inducted into
The baker's hall of fame.

*a submarine sandwich, New Orleans style