https://youtu.be/vqJHUkOTLOQ

From the frying pan

Of lying thieving scumbags,

To Tory-lite fire;

The tool-maker’s son,

Palestine’s blood on his hands,

Purging our Red Rose.

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You had hidden talents, special skills

One was bakinng bread

When first I smelt your crusty loaf

I could have dropped down dead

The staff of life, the staff of life is bread

A hot bloomer cant be bettered

The sight of you kneading fresh dough

Left my loins on fire, my lust unfettered

That first taste left me spellbound

Nothing was ever so evocative

From then...

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