From tired bakers half yet dream, but three are still awoken
And watch the oven’s rose: if lost its temper, it quickly cries;
So, the conceited Big Six team has in care it: not to be broken;
They cut deep in bread: long stripes of white dreams mixed with flour;
But bitter taste on tongue, brave bakers, bright short sighted eyes,
Burned bread because the flame with mixed yellow brandy fuel;
Bakers-statues won’t be built near the sweet sweat torpor’s flower;
As usually, the chiefs, the women and the fire were too cruel.
Thus, many types of bread lay brown and even cakes with ornament.
That time, I was the seventh baker in the famous Big Six team.
Piece of cake punishment: we have to eat the oven’s all content.
Imagine drunkard devils eating embers in the shinning beam.
Pity the bread eaters, or what else can you be.
From now, we have to work as much as three.