There’s a cannibal lives in a flat down the road
Who only eats children, or so I’ve been told.
He doesn’t like grown ups - he says they’re too tough -
But of children for dinner, he can’t get enough.
He puts them in soup and he cooks them in pasta.
He can’t understand why they’re not sold at Asda.
He takes them on picnics and sits on a rug,
Then pours out a cupful of kids from a jug.
He has them for breakfast on toast with some tea
And once, when I visited, cooked one for me.
He dunks them in cocoa at night before bed -
He lets them go soft and then bites off their head.
He passes them round on a tray for a sack
And suggested to Tesco to sell them in packs.
But they just wrote back and said, Thanks for the letter.
But packs will not work - we think boxes are better.
And then he invented Tot Noodle with sauce,
And Sainsbury’s said they would sell them, of course.
Then came the kid cracker, boy biscuit, child chip -
Which melted like chocolate when passed through the lips.
Now that cannibal’s rich with his brilliant ideas
(He even sells real bone wardrobes to IKEA),
And he lives in a mansion, which he thinks is quite funny -
They always said you can’t have both kids and money.