By tomorrow I’ll have put pounds on.
Oh, the gorging was rife.
I wish it were only ten
kilos of beef carved with my knife.

My gut has ballooned far—
I’m no fan of Jenny Craig.
There was such egregious eatin’;
of gluttony it’s a plague.

On the pounds went to my abdomen—
I was chowing down with glee.
Shoulda stopped after I’d had ten pies—
I’d sliced ’em up freely.
A whole ham—through that I quickly chewed.
All the while I was blasé.
The result: I’m stout,
broke my waistband.
Hog fress at the buffet.

Land o’ Lakes—in Minnesota—
that spread is so buttery.
I won’t have plain my Texas
Toast—a sat-fat slut, that’s me.

A Po’ Boy with au jus an’
a New York filet.
I top it all off with a dozen tartes
and a huge vat of soufflé.

Mounds of pound cake to my abdomen—
it was a chowing-down spree.
Shoulda stopped after bushels of fries—
polished ’em off freely.
Cans of Spam—through them I quickly chewed,
then moved on to a sauté.
The result: I’m stout,
my waist expands.
Hog fress at the buffet.

Next, Crown Royal to my abdomen—
it was a downing-rounds spree.
Shoulda stopped at a dozen ryes…
several quarts of whiskey
A meringue pie…I guess it was two,
then a huge ice cream parfait.
And then I passed out
till once again:
hog fress at the buffet.