Three-story co-conut cake—mo’ gâteau!
A danger game, such feasting. . .and a shame.
Each bite I inhale; whiskey fills a pail;
I take it in. . .caloric sin.
Roasted and toasted.

Well, there once was a time when I would say:
“Don’t take my sup—so what, it’s pudgment day?!”
as I would dig into my ice creams,
followed by wine and a dozen breams.
All grub I love; I’d slug down the tallest of beers.
But now, hear me beseech:

Take my sup on pudgment day!
Clear this fried golden junk away.
Nix the pies; don’t ply the ale.
Coco’ cream will not make me well.

A man with fattened globes bulging beneath his robe—
mammaries grown, each several stone,
Bloated, bra-toted.

When I think of the boobies I have:
two huge sagging titty victims of grav’.
Not so bad if they were riding high. . .
they look like bags under the eye.
The time has come to slim down and stop all the leers.

Take my sup on pudgment day!!
Clear these golden crumpets away.
Nix the fries; don’t ply the ale.
Whole-fat cream will not make me well.

It’s tasty, but there’s danger;
fritters can mean danger.

Take my sup on pudgment day?
Clear this golden Bundt-cake away?!
Hold it! Why should lithe prevail?!!
Mocha creams—reams!—my midriff swells.