I am in trouble now,
Oh boy am I in trouble!
Its not really my fault,
The ingredients just seem to fall,
To fall out of the cupboard.
And just because the amounts that fell
Were the weight to create them
It had to be done.
The mixture was made,
I didn’t mean to do it,
Honest!
They were flattened
And then cut.
The oven seemed to come on alone,
Was it those ghosts again
Forcing me,
Forcing me to create them?
Into the oven they went
And cooked,
Cooked to perfection.
They looked wonderful.
Then came the problem,
Were they OK,
Ok to share with others?
I tasted one,
I had found heaven,
Or was it hell?
As I had to try another
Just to be sure.
And that is my undoing,
They are so delightful
That I will eat them,
And my waist will get bigger,
That is the problem
When they get made.
It is nothing to do with me,
It is not my fault
That they are so good,
It is not my fault,
Honest!
It was the ghosts
Baking shortbread,
Again!