To eat or not to eat? Is that your question?
Whether ‘tis good the gut endures a dish
Of beans, asparagus, and collard greens
Or take a rib or roast and by such meats
Our cravings feed? To nibble, snitch, or snack—
No, more! And by these meals we mean to say
No more of spinach, lettuce and the like
As women want: ‘tis beef! A supper, sure,
To be desired! To munch, to chomp, to chew!
A buffet—feast perhaps, and not in dreams!
For in that feast what flavored foods would come,
Like tatters, gravies, rib eyes, puddings, pies,
Portions of pork and fat...ay, there's the rub:
For as we feed what flab will cling and hang
About our chins and waists; what blubber builds
Its piles and stocks its stores about our thighs;
What bellies, swelled with swallowed lard, now bulge
The shirt, then drape and droop and over-brim
The belts and bury, yeah, the buckle, and pop
The buttons ‘round the gut—this gives us pause
And freezes mid-raised forks before we gnaw
With wat’ring teeth the tender juicy steak
Or cram in mouth the moistest crumbs of cakes!
From dread to bloat like bladders or balloons,
From fear of portly paunch, we stomach foods
Deplete of spices, carbs, and goodly fats;
We suffer parsnips, peppers, cabbage, corn;
We torture all our tastes with turnips, peas,
And yams; we bear the beets, yet pour our beers
In sinks and wet the lawn with wine undrunk.
And rather than fermented grains or grapes—
The nectar of the gods—we bottom up
Bad milk or some basidiomycete—
Merely a mushroom, to pronounce it plain—
A baby’s drink and mold deemed edible when
They are kefir and then kambucha called.
And too we stifle native thirst with juice,
Unnaturally wrung from carrots and from kale.
This and much more we eat and drink when dread
Visions of chubby cheeks disturb our dinners
And drive us to such diets fit for none.
So doing, corpulence is kept away,
And ourselves look like gangly sticks and skulk
From supper table to the porcelain pot,
Dulled and disgruntled in our skin-wrapped bones.
Thus grease makes anorexics of us all
And spoils our love of all that's scrumptious here.
Mock now no more my swelling girth or thighs
Or triple chin. But let me be content and round,
And let, in this, my plate my palate please.
|