Bread are my walls and my roof is of ginger,
 But the hands of its maker are steady and tried.
 The gumdrops are piled in the place of my choosing,
 And mortared with sugar that's colored with dye.
 
 Back when Old Earth tried to take over Dorsai,
 The Dorsai fought hard, they disliked it a bunch.
 Though they were all skilled their defeat was quite certain,
 Until I invited DeCastries to lunch.
 
 Tough are the Dorsai, but they are quite stringy,
 And it takes quite a chef to bring out their good side.
 I have worked long, and I am quite choosy,
 But half of my dishes are better off fried.
 
 Blood fuels the fire of this stove that I cook on,
 And blood is the baste for the kids I sauté.
 The taste, it is sweet, for the meat's young and tender,
 Served rare or well, medium or flambé.
 
 I am the heart of the scourge of the Morgans.
 Many of them meet their end on my rack.
 I use lots of spice on the meat tough and stringy
 And bacon for flavor that they sadly lack.
 
 Bread are my walls and my roof is of ginger,
 But the hands of its maker are steady and tried.
 The gumdrops are piled in the place of my choosing,
 And mortared with sugar that's colored with dye.