The Battle Of The Bulge

 This year an ocean trip I took, and as I am a Scot
And like to get my money's worth I never missed a meal.

In spite of Neptune's nastiness I ate an awful lot,
Yet felt as fit as if we sailed upon an even keel.

But now that I am home again I'm stricken with disgust;
How many pounds of fat I've gained I'd rather not divulge:
Well, anyway I mean to take this tummy down or bust,
So here I'm suet-strafing in the
 Battle of the Bulge.

No more will sausage, bacon, eggs provide my breakfast fare;
On lobster I will never lunch, with mounds of mayonnaise.

At tea I'll Spartanly eschew the chocolate éclair;
Roast duckling and péche melba shall not consummate my days.

No more nocturnal ice-box raids, midnight spaghetti feeds;
On slabs of pâté de foie gras I vow I won't indulge:
Let bran and cottage cheese suffice my gastronomic needs,
And lettuce be my ally in the
 Battle of the Bulge.


To hell with you, ignoble paunch, abhorrent in my sight!
I gaze at your rotundity, and savage is my frown.

I'll rub you and I'll scrub you and I'll drub you day and night,
But by the gods of symmetry I swear I'll get you down.

Your smooth and smug convexity, by heck! I will subdue,
And when you tucker in again with joy will I refulge;
No longer of my toes will you obstruct my downward view .
 .
 .

With might and main I'll fight to gain the
 Battle of the Bulge.

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