I know a bloke on Drury Lane Who clocks on tired and leaves the same. Some dickhead filmed him through the glass— A million strangers up his arse. The shop just got a one-star rant: “Wouldn’t stop to do the chant.” He burnt his arm. They want a grin. “Sorry, mate, can we go again?” Do you know the Muffin Man? Do you know the Muffin Man? Everybody knows the Muffin Man— Nobody knows his name. Do you know the Muffin Man? Has he got a master plan? Pay the rent and get some sleep, Then do the whole shitshow again. The boss has launched a branded range: “Same old face! Exciting change!” His smiling head’s on mugs and shirts. His actual head’s at work. It hurts. They call him “family” every week, Then text him shifts while he’s asleep. He asked about a decent rate. They said, “We’ve raised your profile, mate.” Do you know the Muffin Man? Do you know the Muffin Man? Everybody knows the Muffin Man— Nobody knows his name. Do you know the Muffin Man? Has he got a master plan? Pay the rent and get some sleep, Then do the whole shitshow again. There’s a podcast. There’s a think piece. There’s a bloke who says it’s woke. There’s a queue around the corner For a selfie with the joke. He left his apron on the counter. No one noticed till the smoke. Do you know the Muffin Man? Do you know the Muffin Man? Everybody knows the Muffin Man— His name is fucking Dan! Do you know the Muffin Man? Hope you’ve got a backup plan. He’s resigned. You’re short a baker. Sing your fucking song again. No, you don’t. No, you don’t. You just know the fucking song.
