With your scourge-curry mouth, you will miss nary a time
To dive into smoked herring; pie, key lime,
Not a sliver lost when it’s thyme to dine.
You chew a young hen and you drink as you ferry food
To that socket where lexicon does pass.
You have eat-carp visions and pâté de foie gras;
You’re a lech for milk, which can make for gas.
Chew a young wren, which I think is a scary food.
Fat guy’s lazy and a slow man,
And this lax guy’s not fit—got a “Whoa, man!” bum.
Makes warehouse buys of Arabian plums
And will eat them by the spate;
Oh, fat guy’s tasting. He just ate!

Digs in. . .beets by kettles, no, it’s svelte he ain’t,
Got a peck of carp, tinged with a mercury taint,
And his raiment goes bust at every plait/plate.
Chew foo yungs—10! I think no one’d outfress you.
Look, your silhouette isn’t slight or slim;
Into your pies your forks’ tines will swim.
With your cookbook fries, you’ve been gypped of vim.
Chew on tongue, friend, and that might suppress you.
Fat guy’s lazy and a sloth man,
And this slack guy’s not fit—got a bloat-man tum.
Makes warehouse buys, then chasin’ ’em with Tums
And will eat them by the spate,
Oh, fat guy’s tasting. . .a big plate.

Then he thinks of thymus—carnivorous wish;
He’d baste them with lime, all those cevichean fish,
And he’d go for roe, that good Caspian dish.
Butt grew beyond ken, ’cause of caloric misuse.
You fry or use flames to cook a nice hunk
Of your battered ham ’r a monkey-brain chunk.
You’ve a chowboy mouth into which you plunk
Food, a ton, then booze you drink and emit fumes.
Fat guy’s lazy and a gross man,
And this gas guy’s not fit—got a “Whoa, man!” funk.
Makes warehouse buys of Alsatian rum;
It’s a beverage he don’t hate;
Oh, fat guy’s gaining lots of weight.

Oh, the farmers and the fishermen are all on his side
As he rips through angel food and fish; they can abide
His etiquette so crude, ’cause he buys all they provide;
Their chow’s good; he’s loved by the bake crews.
The dishes and delicacies from the farm
And from the sea he will feed when he’s finished in the barn,
And he will pile up the noodles, wriggling down his arm.
Chow’s good. . .evisceration, a hake chew.
Fat guy’s lazy and a roast man,
And this flab guy’s not fit—got a roast-ham bum.
Buys warehouse pies—Scandinavian junk.
Can’t believe how much he ate!
Mo’ crams pies in face by the spate.

On a feed fettle frenzy, goes through Cannery Row
As he masticates crackers slathered with Caspian roe.
He’s no gentleman—powers down pounds of fresh Coho,
Chews and stung when he bites into a fugu,
But he bite-fights through his grief; into his mouth’s hole
A whole bunch of medallions chased with big dinner rolls.
Got a pasty face, yet for toast he trolls,
Then chews a [hush] puppy, takes a drink of a Yoo-Hoo.
Fat guy’s lazy and a sloe man,
And this mass guy’s not fit—got a most-grand tum.
Makes warehouse buys of Croatian plums--
Gonna feed them in his face
And fat guy’s saying “gras,” not “grace.”