We’ve been singing about the Muffin Man for years. My whole life, really.
Do you know the Muffin Man, the Muffin Man, the Muffin Man?
Do you know the Muffin Man who lives on Dreary Lane?
And I thought I knew the Muffin Man. Raggedy guy. Bakes muffins. Hates his job. But understandably, right? I mean, he’s been pushed down by life. Never went past the 3rd grade. Had to go to work at the muffin factory to help feed all those brothers and sisters. Gets paid a ha’penny and a bag of stale muffins once a week. Shuffles to and from the monotony in his threadbare coat. Never could manage to save enough to leave Dreary Lane behind.
But now, after almost 40 years, I just realized I do not know the Muffin Man. Not at all.
Turns out, the Muffin Man’s been living on Drury Lane. The whole time!
THIS CHANGES EVERYTHING.
Now the song’s not even a little bit ironic. Or a cultural statement about the terrible working conditions of muffin makers everywhere. The Muffin Man probably whistles on his way to work, you guys. He might even be married. With kids. And a house with lots of windows. And a happy-go-lucky Labrador who steals pot roasts left to cool too near the edge of the counter. And a pension. The guy might have a muffin pension, for crying out loud.
I don’t even know what to do with this new information. It’s like the whole world changed and people keep going on like this is a normal day.
So here’s the question I need to ask:
Do you know the Muffin Man?
If yes, what can you tell me?