the weekly poem
A Taste Of Money
I’m off for a jog, I’m off for a trot,
My belly’s, they tell me, gone to pot.
Stop for a sausage, piping hot.
Munch.
I’ll lift my weight on the wooden bars,
I’ll hustle my muscles till I see stars,
On the way home, pick Snickers and Mars.
Crunch.
I was size thirty, I’ll be size zero,
I’ll be the weight-watcher national hero.
Here’s a frappacino from Café Nero.
Slurp.
I’ll be linear, skinnier, a lover of the land which
Fights the flab and hold up its hand. Ditch
The salt and sweet! Let’s stop for a sandwich.
Burp.
I’ve got the secret, I’ve got the slim-key:
Soon all my clothes will be super-skimpy.
Wait just a tick while I whizz to the Wimpy:
Gobble.
Stretch and bend and sway and swing,
Lord Sugar’s unfit for absolutely anything.
Macdonald’s, Starbuck’s, and Burger King.
Wobble.
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POETRY KIT WEBRING |
