Ten pounds since summer solstice I have gained:
and any talk of diets is in vain;
for air will turn into the purest fat on me,
it’s what my brain does to my poor anatomy.
I’ve tried to argue interest in gastronomy;
but bulbous belly never did look good on me,
so I must really start to lose this gut
before all that retreats onto my butt.
And was it pies created this disaster?
Or maybe cakes or chocolate bars are faster.
Or maybe nuts or eating something after supper?
Or maybe toast and jam and piling on the butter.
Those things I love, and will until I die.
So I must sacrifice, ’til by and by
I’m thin again, and all my clothes look good on me
and then it starts again as I put food in me.
The voice of the poet
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