Sonnet for the Sensible Eater

Fizzy sweets and creamy cakes,
red meats fried to give the very sky a stroke,
the angels clogged-up ventricles,
and God a struggled breath.

Bathe my soul in a wire basket,
French fries my down-y quilt.
Make me as fat as Medici, the last
of which would barely leave his bed,
too entertained by boys and food, food, food.

I’ll gorge myself on everything
the sensible despise.
Crispy bacon on white bread,
Battered fish between two jam doughnuts.
Better than sex. Not that a fatty would know.