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 roosts in my soul,

I'm no more active and fit,

she thrusts food at me, a

dead duck if she don't quit

 

wily, she watches her input,

she stayed as thin as a lat,

it's me that grows like Topsy

only me that grew too fat

 

after another heart by-pass,

uneasy on the ward I reflect

on the motives of my spouse

what plots did she confect?

 

too late for bread and water

while she's nubile and spry,

she murdered me with flour,

my dough's hers when I die