By the shores of Lake Lambrini,

Near the foothills of Panini,

And the plains of Fegatini,

Through the valleys in betweeni,

Where the flowing Canneloni,

Meets the wandering Marscapone.

 

In amongst the Machiato,

Near the fading Tinto Rosso,

‘Neath the shading of Lambrusco,

South of Castle Osso Buccho.

 

Here a local pasta maker,

Bought out by a corporate baker;

Reputation keeps it going,

Striving but the tide is flowing.

 

Now they have a brand new master.

In his office, white walled plaster,

Lined with busts of alabaster;

Wants to make the pasta faster.

 

On the floor they were aghast-a,

“We have always made our pasta

To our recipes down passed-a

But we cannot work too fast-a!”

 

“Things are changing,” said the master,

From his room of white walled plaster.

“We must make the pasta faster,

So our rivals are outclassed-a”

 

So the master strolling past-a

Turned the speeds to very fast-a;

Higher throughput, faster pasta.

More cash in the bank amassed-a.

 

“Faster faster!” screamed the master

From his room of white walled plaster.

“Got to make the pasta faster,

Jump to it you idle basta's!”

 

As the workers felt his blast-a,

They knew that it could not last-a;

Cogs were whirring far too fast-a,

Flying belts went whizzing past-a.

 

Soon the place was filled with pasta;

In the office of the master;

Even on the white walled plaster

And the busts of alabaster.

 

Now that frantic stage has passed-a,

Packed his bags and gone the master.

Now they can return at last-a,

Once more making finest pasta.

By the shores of Lake Lambrini,

Near the foothills of Panini.