Caketastrophe

Tick tock,
the cake was dropped,
but another ready,
dipped in frost.
Strawberry fields,
raspberry clouds,
dancing and singing,
little miss proud.

So proud of her cake, 
triple-layer,
ten candles.
One for each song
passing by
on her mantle.

But as soon as she's done
down to the floor it must go.
There she goes again,
where did her apron go?