As Troy Warriors, perverse calories
hide inside aromatic chocolates with horsey figures,
bleeding stakes, unlucky lobsters, and pedigree wines.
It’s a plot to enlarge my vulnerable stomach,
destroy my heart, wreck my figure, and crush my skinny self-esteem.
Exercise, says my doctor, go on a diet, whispers my wife
change your attitude, prescribes my therapist.
But there is a perverse conspiracy, the food pushers
attacks my feeble willpower with tasty commercials,
All they care about is gobbling my bank account.
