Ode to a Panniculus

I wrote this poem back in January to encapsulate my feelings about being fat.  It is now April, and I have severely curtailed my intake to 1 1/2 meals a day and almost no carbohydrates.  As a result I have dropped about 25 pounds so far and gone down a full 2 dress sizes.  However I still have at least another 4 to conquer, but I am probably more ardent in my determination now.  The front of me is melting like that dude's face in Raiders of the Lost Ark.

ODE TO A PANNICULUS

Bloober Blob the blubber slob
is a slapping slab of flapping flab,
a ridiculous panniculus,
a sloppy slag of blubbing blab.

She's the vampire on the front of me,
so big that I can't hope to see
my feet.  This shit has got to end.
No happy ending to this trend.

I have decided now forthwith
she will not have a single pith
of politically correct petition.
I will kill her of my own volition.

With diet, hate, and exercise,
I'll stomp her crying bold chokehold,
and break each finger I pry off,
not mine, but her face I will stuff
with fists of workouts, and not food
I will beat this weepy bitch up good.

Yes I did oncely believe
I must accept and let her live,
but if I let Bloober Blob just lie,
this bitch will make me up and die.
My joy and health are nearly wrecks,
and cockblocks? Pray tell, what is sex?

I'm sick and tired of self-acceptance,
As trying to ignore her is relentless.
Bloober Blobs are vampire guts
petitioning a too-kind putz
to fill the cruelty of life with food
and lie to me, and say it's good,
till there's no skin left to put it in,
and gobbles up my insulin.

It's not my job to preach to you
and if you're fat it's because you're kind,
too kind, and let her croon to you
till you have nothing left to do
but feed that bitch and let her cry
while life ends up a passerby.
If you feed your vampire that is fine.
I'm just saying that I'm murdering mine.