Ode to Diets

murderous waves of melting chocolate bars
seem to attack the spineless dieters
and slurp thick coats of butterscotch
on top of glazed hams nightly,
while farm boys carry barbecue
to secret places.

oh the poor fat man,
slave to urgings unknown since
cadavers rose from cream sauces
long ago in Mesopotamia
on the River Styx
or some other god-awful
place where curdled goat’s milk
had been a delicacy.

now resolute folks flock
to K-Marts buying oatmeal
ice cream and truly
devastating tofu meat patties,
washing said delights into stomachs
clothed with XXX sized nylon,
just enough to hold them in
before diet beer foams in
transformed quagmires,
and gypsy balladeers, singing
tunes by Willie Nelson toking on
fruit lollipops, plop grease
down stuffed shirts.