The candles the chandeliers make,
To float on a flower strewn lake,
In a crackled glass bowl,
Are preferred, on the whole,
To those you blow out on a cake.
Now what is the label or handle,
For a fella who makes us a candle?
It's a bit cavalier,
To call him chandelier,
And to hang him up might cause a scandal.
Ah, a chandler's the fellow by trade,
By whom all our candles are made.
And if he's called a chandler,
Then maybe a spandler,
Is a fellow who makes us a splayde.
I hope that each tradefellow earns
A good wage for the hours he burns,
For the candles that glow,
And the splaydes for gateaux,
That wish you such happy returns.
Hug, HUG, and maybe another HUG,