An ode to pastry Chefs

Lance Corporal Lent, Lance Corporal Lent

His custom made uniform is cut from a tent.

He’s a pastry chef of tank sized girth

He’s as wide as tall and full of mirth.

Waddle here and waddle there

To keep his thighs from chafe and view 

He’s got long legged carbon fiber under wear

Oh yes, Corporal Lent, our Corporal Lent

A pastry chef of great renown.

Self critical of his art only lets the cream depart.

All the failures he gobbles down,

Wouldn’t serve them to a clown.

Then we have di-rect boss, A?

A Sergeant-major Glut Ton-A

Who was trained in French Canadian way.

He would not serve what he would not eat,

“better between the toes of my feet,

Or for the mice and rats to eat.

Keep your honor truly 

Poor food shown is only 

A picture of your mistakes. 

“Best to eat the evidence away.”

That’s what Sergeant-major

 Glut Ton-A would say.

The two of them would work their magic

In the Pentagon and for Congress.

Trouble was no one could pass

After one serving of their best

Any type of physical fitness tests.