(Verse 1)

Sunrise paints the HarborView a gentle, hazy hue,

Another day begins in Little Bay, for him and maybe you.

The locals nod and whisper low, as he walks down the street,

They see the bulging biceps, the traps, the sculpted feet.

They think he pumps all day and night, beneath the iron's clang,

Another muscle-bound cliché, where heavy weights all hang.

But they don't see the flour dust that clings beneath his nail,

Or the whisk marks on his forearm, a story they won't tell.

(Chorus)

Oh, they call him "Iron Arms," "The Boulder," and "The Tank,"

But his passion's in the kitchen, not upon a metal plank.

He wields a spatula with grace, a piping bag with might,

Bringing flavors to this sleepy town, and baking through the night.

That hulking frame, that leading man look, it throws them for a loop,

But all he craves' a happy smile, after a savory soup.

(Verse 2)

The HarborView diner's small and quaint, the regulars are few,

But when his specials hit the board, a different crowd breaks through.

The aroma of his sourdough, the sweetness of his tart,

Draws folks in from miles around, a brand new work of art.

They marvel at the gentle hands that knead the dough so fine,

The precision in his knife work, a talent truly his design.

They came for curiosity, a glimpse of the "muscle chef,"

But they stay for the taste, the comfort, the joy he brings himself.

(Chorus)

Oh, they call him "Iron Arms," "The Boulder," and "The Tank,"

But his passion's in the kitchen, not upon a metal plank.

He wields a spatula with grace, a piping bag with might,

Bringing flavors to this sleepy town, and baking through the night.

That hulking frame, that leading man look, it throws them for a loop,

But all he craves' a happy smile, after a savory soup.

(Bridge)

Word spreads like wildfire, carried on the salty breeze,

Of the handsome chef in HarborView, who brings folks to their knees...

With his lemon zest and buttercream, his perfectly seared steak,

Suddenly, the single women, a pilgrimage they make.

Little Bay's a-buzzing now, the harbor's looking bright,

All thanks to this unlikely cook, who fills their days with light.

(Chorus)

Oh, they call him "Iron Arms," "The Boulder," and "The Tank,"

But his passion's in the kitchen, not upon a metal plank.

He wields a spatula with grace, a piping bag with might,

Bringing flavors to this sleepy town, and baking through the night.

That hulking frame, that leading man look, it throws them for a loop,

But all he craves' a happy smile, after a savory soup.

(Outro)

Now every year in HarborView, the "Flavors of the Bay" ignite,

A festival of food and fun, bathed in the summer light.

They raise a toast to Iron Arms, the chef with gentle soul,

The man who brought the crowds and made their little town feel whole.

Yeah, the hulky, handsome baker, content in his own skin,

Showed Little Bay that true strength lies, in the goodness from within.