Mrs Bobbit’s bloomers

I like a bit of crumpet with my early morning tea
My baps are full to bursting point for all to plainly see
The chap from number thirty-one’s a slave to chapatti
And serenades my pumpernickel with alacrity

Mr Bate from twenty-eight is cream puff through and through
While Vincent Vaughan prefers the horn but wouldn’t pay for two
Sally Dean from seventeen won’t settle for the crumbs
With six to feed she might well need considerably bigger buns

So devil take your Angel Cake, your fancies and your bannocks
Your Delias and Blumenthals and erstwhile Fanny Craddocks
Feel free to squeeze my muffins and devour my chocolate spread
But one hand on my bloomers and you’ll wish you were brown bread