Come back after midnight!
Tomato. Garlic. Basil. Goop.
He'll turn your pals into soup.
Weekday nights when you're all alone.
He lurks about in your home.
He conceals himself in your cupboards.
Waiting to be discovered.
Its dinner time, you're feeling lonely.
"Maybe I'll prep some macaroni?"
Beware! Beware! 'Tis a mistake.
For the Pasta Man you soon will wake.
You search all the world wide web,
For a recipe that'll keep you fed.
But as you type you feel a stir.
A cold whisper at your cabinet door.
(Pasta. Pasta. Pasta. Time.)
"Hmm. What's that? Probably nothing."
As you ignore his quiet thumping.
Please sir, I must insist.
The Pasta Man best be missed.
Put down the phone, make a salad!
Or this will be your tragic ballad.
(PASTA. PASTA. PASTA. TIME.)
His chants become increasingly louder.
While your mind's on garlic powder.
Now it's become much too late.
The Pasta Man will decide your fate.
Fusilli, Spaghettini, Taglierini, or Ziti.
When he's through, you won't look pretty.
He winds up his pasta machine.
Complete with sharp pokey things.
Churn. Splunk. Clang. Klerplat.
The giant wheels will roll you flat.
In one end, out the other.
This machines intends to plunder.
(PASTA TIME! PASTA TIME! PASTA PASTA PASTA TIME!)
This is it, your time has come.
The Pasta Man will have his fun.
He brings his fingers to his lips.
And blows you a big chef's kiss.
The Machine is buzzing and ready to go.
He scoops you up and starts the show.
He can hardly await his feast,
As he throws you to the beast.
You scream "Wait no, please someone save me!"
He coldly replies "Sorry. Pasta la vista... baby" ✌️