she's a great cook to be fair,

puts fine grub on the table,

sees me eat up with gusto

as best as my belly is able

she has a bread-maker now,

flour and yeast and pastry,

I must mind my waistline,

dont gobble it up too hasty

upset she is at what I leave,

fat gander getting force-fed,

guts so leaden and swollen

I'm no longer good in bed

obesity roost...

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Sometimes I stand there

In front of the mirror

And my stomach grows

My thighs fatten

My chins double

As I stare at myself

I can feel the food inside me

Bloating and distending me

From inside out

I rush to clothe myself

In case they no longer fit by the time I am finished

In case my fingers become too fat

And sausage like

To do up my buttons

I feel sick at ...

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