We find in confectioner’s cakes
The children unto ’em will cling, tra la,
Though they’re spongy and tough as a string, tra la,
And simply are leathery fakes!
And that’s why we’re sad when they pass us a thing,
Made out of the flour that blooms in the spring.
The houses we clean in the spring, tra la,
Give a blow to all social sunshine,
And we profanely say as we sing, tra la,
That we’d like to be hanged on a string, tra la,