Lithe, lithe does not describe me. . .maybe you.
Lithe, lithe? I’m moving like a wounded gnu.
Cheers, cheers, I’m encased in a case of brew.
Beers, beers—
Soon it’s gone and I want a new.
No way I’d get on a trapeze
’cause I might bring the tent down.
Lithe? Lithe?! Break it apart.

Maybe were I like a barf girl
I’d not put on so much weight.
In fact, I am a food-scarf churl—
no time to masticate.

Lithe, lithe?
I’m bigger than that Smith named Kay.
Lithe, lithe?
Means I can’t do a fast sashay.
Were I a book, I’d be tomely,
splitting seams where leather-bound
Lithe? Light?! Breakin’ apart.

One day, might not be a fatty
waddling around like a cow.
Lithe, lithe I would be if smart.

Maybe I’ll be like a barf girl—
spew after I masticate,
get finger down for a large hurl
and then regurgitate spates.

Lithe (ah!), lithe (well maybe);
I think I’ll go the finger way.
Blithe, blithe my spirit might be if I spray
I may look like one man only
if I drop a hundred pounds

Writhe, writhe—gut as upchuck starts
I am sprayin’ now: pies from the mart. . . .