The Green Bun of the Little Yellow Troll

There’s a half-baked little croissant
To the North of Kathmandu,
There’s a little pastry shop below the town,
Where some broken-hearted Bakers
Tend the grave of one they knew,
And the yellow troll forever gazes down.

He was known as “Mad U.B.”
For reasons that you’ll see,
He was sharper than a wagonload of knives,
But for all his wild ideas,
He was worshipped by his peers,
And the Baker’s daughter loved his sparkling eyes.

He had loved bread all along,
With the passion of the strong,
And that she matched that love was plain to all.
She was nearly twenty-one,
And arrangements were begun
To celebrate her birthday with a ball

He wrote to ask what present
She would like from 'Mad U.B.”
They met next day as he was baking rolls:
And jestingly she made pretence
That nothing else would do ...
But the green bun of the little yellow Troll.

On the night before the dance
'Mad U.B.” seemed in a trance,
And they chaffed him
As they typed at their annos,
But for once he failed to bite,
And he sat alone and quiet,
Then went out into the night…. where, no-one knows.

He returned, before the dawn,
With his keyboard cable torn,
And a warning on his desktop... flashing red.
He was patched up right away,
And he slept all through the day
While the Baker’s daughter
Watched beside his bed.

He woke at last and asked her
If she'd send his backup through.
She loaded it and he thanked her with a nod.
He bade her search the files,
Saying, 'That's from "Mad U.B.'
And there she found ... the green bun of the Troll.

She upbraided poor U.B.,
It’s a woman’s way, you see,
Although her eyes were strangely hot and wet,
But she would not take the code,
And U.B. was left alone
With the pastry that he'd chanced his life to get.

When the ball was at its height
On that still and tropic night,
She thought of him ... and hastened to his room.
As she crossed the garden square
She could hear the dreamy air
Of a waltz tune softly stealing thro' the gloom.

His door was open wide,
With his VDU inside;
The place was wet and slippery where she trod;
An ugly fishbone lay buried
In the heart of 'Mad UB”...
'Twas the vengeance of the little yellow Troll.

There’s a half-baked little croissant
To the North of Kathmandu,
There’s a little pastry shop below the town,
Where some broken-hearted Bakers
Tend the grave of one they knew,
And the yellow troll forever gazes down.