In France there is a woman with a feathered brim.
A baker, un confiseur, sung with an old fashioned hymn.
A tower she built, of her rainbow confection-aries,
To les étoiles, to the moon, and through dim galaxies.
Baking was her greatest delight, for all the city folk knew,
But what they didn't see coming was how much she could do.
The 'gens de ville' scratched their heads, at the tower clear to the moon,
The feather brimmed woman sighed, 'mes amis!' They're just macaroons!