| The thought of fresh bread drives me crazy
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| Brown, crisp rolls, fresh and warm
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| I roam the streets for baker’s shops
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| Compelled to enter each I pass
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| I once rode in a baker’s van
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| Down the road when I was small
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| Could this have started my obsession
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| Or is there some more sinister cause?
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| I had a friend who was the same
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| Biting corners from his purchase
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| Murmuring some sweet endearment
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| To the yeasty object of his love
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| My passion’s getting out of hand
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| I’m rapidly losing control
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| Each room is stacked up to the ceiling
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| With it’s moulding, doughy crew
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| So if you chance to see me walking
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| Or stumbling with a heavy loud
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| Please relieve me of my burden
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| And check my pocket for hidden rolls |