My jeans are much tighter than this time last year.
Maybe I’ve been drinking far too much beer.
And too much dessert didn’t help, it seems clear:
I’m think that I’m getting fat.

The problem is that I just like food too much.
I can’t stand just looking; I have to then touch.
Then touch leads to eating, my emotional crutch.
I feel really bad about that.

My shirts don’t even button all the way down
They stop about half-way, right around
My stomach, expanding, without any bound.
Like it’s trying to break itself free.

I can’t see my feet past the rise in my middle.
The view past my chins is also quite little
And the fat in my cheeks blocks the view from my spittle.
I really can’t see much of me.

I tried eating pebbles and twigs and dirt
But rocks made me nauseous, and sticks made me hurt.
I lived like a hermit, in a cave and a yurt,
But nothing helped me a bit.

I tried throwing up everything that I ate
(So desperate was I to lose all this weight)
But getting rotunder just must be my fate
Though I wish my clothes would just fit.

I tried drinking less than a keg every day
And cases of wine are not good, so they say,
I’d like to keep guzzling scotch, if I may,
But it all settles down on my gut.

Then birthdays happen, with piles of cake,
And holiday feasts drag me into their wake,
And I end up stuffing all I can take,
Till I can’t even get off my butt.

So nothing is helping to knock down the pounds,
Not the diets, or puking, or teetotalling, sounds
Like I’d better get used to my big, doughy mounds;
I just can’t seem to beat it.

So bring on the cake and the ice cream and frosting,
And give me the steak and the gravy. It’s costing
My health and it’s emotionally exhausting,
But if you can’t fight it, eat it.

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