Little song I didnt write with Elvis, all about the mean streets and bakerys of Chicago (ORD to my airfreight friends). All about some wench whos up the duff but cant resist her cakes. In The Gateaux Whilst scoffing meat pies, On a cold and grey Chicago morn, A poor little baby child is born, Shes eating gateaux. If theres one thing that she dont need, Its another little hungry mouth to feed, Hell eat her gateaux. People dont you understand, This child needs a helping hand, Hell grow to be a fat obese teen one day. Take a look at you and me, Are we too blind to see, Do we simply turn our heads, and eat another cake. Well the world turns. And a chubby little boy hes 15 stone, Plays in the street, my how hes grown, Hes eating gateaux. So he starts to roam the streets at night, Eating a bag of chips but still fancies a bite, Of a gateaux. Then one night in desperation the young man enters a cafe, He buys a bun, steals a tart, tries to run but he dont get far, And his momma cries. The crowd gathers round a hungry fat man, Face down in the cake with a bun in his hand, Immersed in gateaux. Should have stuck to pies. On a cold and grey Chicago morn, Another little baby child is born, Can I have some gateaux .... I want some gateaux ahhh haaaaaa . Why havent they sent a woman to the moon yet? It doesnt need cleaning. My doctor reckons Im paranoid. He didnt say it, but I know hes thinking it.
Posted on: Tue, 03 Jun 2014 10:24:28 +0000