The term you are what you eat, doesn't always apply.

Do you know the muffin man?

He lives at the end of the street.

Known for baking an array of muffins and treats.

Children come from far and wide.

He invites them in, with the promise of all the sweets they can eat.

Once they go in his house, they never come out.

Sometimes you hear beating from within, shouting "let me out."

When parents come to ask where their child may be.

He always replies that he has not seen even one.

The timer ringing, a new batch is done.

He steps aside so they may see.

A giant stove sits in the center of the room.

Bowl upon bowl of batter, to go into the oven soon.

He stands in his apron, wielding his spoon.

Grinning ear to ear like a loon.

A grinder sits near the burning fire.

He grandly bows, offerings muffins.

"Help yourself, take any you desire."

Little do they know, they are made from expired children.

For you see, he feeds them tell they're filled, and cant eat another bite.

And then he goes in for the kill.

Through the grinder they go from head to toe.

Then tossed in the oven to roast on slow.

Stirred up in the batter.

The fatter the better.

Do you know the muffin man?

He lives at the end of the street.

Muffins he bakes.

But for goodness sake, count your children.

Keep them far away.

Or they may be baked in a muffin today.

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