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