It pounds in my head, that obnoxious refrain,
It tells me to hurry, try not to waste time.
I’m beginning to hate it, to dread its return,
“It’s time to bake cookies,” the incessant chime.
I hear it so plainly, and can’t tell its source,
It’s always there, won't give me a rest,
Incessantly nagging and at me again,
“It’s time to bake cookies, this isn’t a test.”
Soften the butter, add sugar to cream,
Stir in the eggs, and turn on the oven,
I measure, and sift, the voice louder again,
“It’s time to bake cookies, pan after pan.”
The doorbell it rings, I can’t answer now.
Tomorrow is Christmas, I’m too far behind
To visit with neighbors or answer a call,
“It’s time to bake cookies!” I’m losing my mind.
“This is nine-one-one, what is your name?”
“It isn’t for me, it’s my friend don’t you see?”
“I need your name, your address and your age.
Stay on the line and remain at the scene.”
“I brought her some cookies, for Christmas, you know,
But as soon as she saw then, she fell to the floor,
And started to twitch and to shake and to moan,
That’s why I called you-- oh, I live next door.”
“The squad car is rolling, it should be there soon,
Are you alone, and is there a gun?”
“A gun? Let me look, her kitchen’s a mess,
Oh, yes, there’s a gun, and no cookies done.”
“Car twenty-one, there’s a gun at the scene,
Be careful, and I will send back-up for you.”
“Oh, no, nine-one-one, it’s not that kind.
The gun’s to make cookies and hors d’oeuvres, too.”
“Your friend is okay,” the officer said,
“I’ve seen lots of these, and so I’ll just leave.
It’s only a virus that comes every year,
When cookies aren’t baked until Christmas Eve.”
Then came a voice, demanding and clear,
The officer spun and pulled out his gun,
“Aren’t you alone? Is somebody here?”
“It’s time to bake cookies, I’ve hadn’t a one!”
“There’s only Pablo, her parrot, you know,
He doesn’t talk much, and I seldom hear.”
But then came the voice ten times louder, I swear,
“It’s time to bake cookies, cuz Christmas is here!”