I weigh a ton, and look it too: there’s simply no disguising
The puckered rolls of adipose I’ve got from gourmandising.
There’s very little that I deem unsavoury or icky;
If carbon-based, I’ll chug it down; I’m really not too picky.
This predilection grieves my wife-there's nothing will appease her
When she has caught me crunching chips directly from the freezer,
Partaking of a sausage roll that’s going green and stinking
Or drinking cooking oil (or something else not meant for drinking.)
She’ll wring her hands, comparing my addiction to a junkie’s,
But truth be told, I genuinely couldn’t give a monkey’s.
I turn and walk away from her the moment she starts bitching
And pluck a goldfish from the bowl to swallow, live and twitching.
I’ll fill my tum with anything from fat balls to polenta,
From steak and kidney pudding to a blob of rat placenta,
From KFC and egg-fried rice to acorns, leaves and catkins…
But if I ever reach two tons, I’m going on the Atkins.
Limit: Two Tons