Now a story, so tragic, so horrid, I’ll tell
of malevolent magic which one day befell
two good people who lived just outside Motherwell.
They had waited nine months for the birth of their child
the father was loving, the mother was mild
the name they’d selected for their first-born was Jake
but the scans hadn’t seen that his head was a cake.
At the moment our hero emerged from the womb
the mother gasped, wept, and fell into a swoon
the midwife boiled custard and then called for a spoon
consultants and researchers pored through libraries and books
then turned to great philosophers and modern pastry cooks
the answer, as it turned out, was the mother’s awful diet
For every time she’d seen a cake she felt compelled to try it
Jake’s mother had abstained from booze, tobacco and blue cheese
Instead she always spent her time in French patisseries
and her excessive intake gave Jake “Gateau-Head disease”
Four days old, Jake’s head grew mould and reeked of putrefaction
The doctor cried “we must be bold and take some drastic action
He’s past his best, his almonds blanched, his raisins have turned pale
I hate to have to tell you this, he really is quite stale”
His cream transfusions failed to stop Jake’s journey into night
and at his wake there was a rather strange satanic sight
when relatives who nibbled said “Jake’s jam still tastes alright.”
Paul Hughes 2008
