All my biscuits, Turn into cake, I wish they wouldn't. I'd follow the recipe - Make no mistake, But they puff up like sponges, And demand to be iced.
I feel as if, I am Alice in Wonderland. These tiny cakes, Multiplying in my hands, Out of my control - And against my will. But I am not mad,
Oh no, not me. I live life, In certainty. Everything as expected, Apart from that, Which I have previously mentioned - Those damned cakes.
I suppose it is the flour, Or water, or sugar, Or butter or too much bicarb - Why do I suffer so? The proof is in the eating yes, But why also in the pudding - Why at all, indeed.