Just one more bacon butty,

then tomorrow he may diet;

he has no love for salad,

but might eat it if you’d fry it.

 

He’ll have fish and chips for dinner,

and I’ve got a sneaky hunch

that he won’t be getting thinner,

‘cause he had more chips at lunch.

 

Then at supper it’s steak pudding

with a mound of mash and beans,

till his belly is protruding

like those Buddha figurines.

 

Some days he says he’s trying,

and he thinks he’ll join a gym,

but his grub’s so satisfying

he decides it’s not for him.

 

So instead his clothes are shrinking,

or at least that’s what he states,

when each evening he’s out drinking

down the King’s Head with his mates.