My father was a baker
Moulding dough like clay
An old fashioned bread-maker
A-lay-a-lay-a-lay
My mother was a prostitute
When they met that day
A street woman of ill-repute
A-lay-a-lay-a-lay
He wished to bake a cake instead
Of using cash to pay
And in exchange she'd share her bed
A-lay-a-lay-a-lay
He baked for weeks and weeks and weeks
And in his small cafe
He developed many new techniques,
A-lay-a-lay-a-lay
And when fin'lly the day did come
And he brought her the tray
The sight she saw did strike her dumb
A-lay-a-lay-a-lay
Cakes and pies and pastry treats,
It was a full buffet
She tried the bread, she tried the sweets
A-lay-a-lay-a-lay
He looked at her, so full of mirth
And took the chance to say
"Now you can't claim this isn't worth
A-lay-a-lay-a-lay."