I woke up on a bed of rice
Don’t know how I got there but it was nice
Though I soon figured out that I was doomed
To be somebody’s dinner that afternoon
So I tried to jump up and say catch you later
But I was pinned down by a baked potater
With two pieces of garlic bread
Like pillows underneath my head
Then I asked myself what kind of chef
Would have made an entreé of my death
And why I’d never thought about the cost
‘Til I was being complemented by applesauce
Food is murder.
