Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man,
But what you bake is more than bread—
A reckoning slow, a hunger fed.
Each golden crust, each whispered plea,
Rises like a ghost in me.
The oven hums a fevered song.
The yeast still blooms, the dough still sighs,
And every loaf is laced with lies.
So pat the cake, but mind the heat—
The baker’s hands are never clean,
And every crust hides what you mean.
Pat-a-cake, pat-a-cake, baker’s man.
