Website was Born on 7th August 2011, last evolved 23rd October 2015

A Fat Cow Ruminates.

This effort got to the final of the Bard of Armagh competition in 2010.

I recited my poem dressed as a fat woman: not a pretty, or convincing, sight, as I'm a 10.5 stone bloke with a Biafranesque physique and a beard. Maybe that's why I didn't win.


You're looking at a woman who has let her figure go.
My problem is, where food's concerned, I cannot just say 'No'.
You know how hard it is to keep the pounds from piling on.
And half those fancy diets are nothing but a con.
I go out on the pull though I don't have any luck.
The only thing that I could pull, would be a two-ton truck.


I'm size eighteen. Would you believe I used to be a ten.
I wouldn't mind it half as much, if it wasn't for the men.
They want you like a model, like Twiggy or Kate Moss.
The stress and torment you go through, they couldn't give a toss.
But when they say 'Like Twiggy', they add under their breath,
they want you with a living bra that wouldn't starve to death.


They want a shapely woman, not a bag of skin and bone.
They want you like an hourglass, not a big-arsed sort of cone.
You wonder why you bother, when you look at what's out there.
A belly that's the match of yours, and losing half their hair.
They always need a shave, and their fingernails are boggin'
You have to switch your mind off, when they get at the snoggin'.


But my weight has caused me problems; my life is full of stress.
How I get by from day to day is anybody's guess.
I once was stuck inside a lift, halfway between the floors.
I pressed the buttons; screamed for help, and hammered on the doors.
The guy who got me out looked at me and said, "No wonder
the motor blew a fuse, and the gearbox fell asunder."


I went to buy some jeans; I'd been invited out for tea.
The shop assistant fainted when she saw the size of me.
"We've nothing that would fit you," she said when she came round.
Then rummaged in the bargain bin; lo and behold she found
a pair of outsize jeans that would have fitted Friar Tuck.
"Here, try these on," she said to me, "you never know your luck."


I bent to pull the jeans up, and let out a D'Oyley Carte.
In case you didn't know, that's Cockney rhyming slang for fart.
It measured on the Richter scale, an awesome three-point-four.
It flattened women's lingerie, and blew the handle off the door.
The manager came rushing in, his face an ashen grey.
"Get out of here, there's been a bomb, the Army's on its way."


The bomb disposal squad came, with a sniffer dog called Tel.
They sent the poor brute in first, to investigate the smell.
He made it past the Food Hall, and had got to Kiddies Klothes,
when the noxious fumes first hit him, and buggered up his nose.
He staggered out to clear his head, and I sneaked out the back
with the jeans shoved up my jumper, underneath my plastic mac.


When I got home I tried them on; they fitted me a treat,
though I will admit they were a little tight across the seat.
"Do these jeans make my bum look big?", I asked my friend Collette.
"No, they don't", says she to me, she really is a pet.
"The jeans don't make your bum look big; they're quite a decent fit.
It's not the jeans, you tub of lard; your bum is big, you twit."


Just then a knock at my front door, I opened it to find
a policeman standing there, who said, "I wonder would you mind
helping us with our enquiries. We are looking for a thief,
who stole a pair of jeans, and caused a huge amount of grief."
"Listen you to me," says I, "I'll have none of your 'oul buck.
If you're planning to arrest me, you'll need a forklift truck."


"I'm not here to arrest you, kindly blow into this bag."
"But I'm not drunk," says I to him, "Is this some kind of gag?
I've had nothing alcoholic, just a glass of Tizer."
"Sorry, Miss," he said to me, "It's not a breathalyzer.
It measures body gases; it will check your DNA.
If the patterns are the same, you've been in the C&A."


I let one off into the bag, I'd had a feed of beans.
It was a real arse-ripper; it blew the bag to smithereens.
The cop surveyed the damage with utter consternation.
"Right! Get into the squad car; you're going to the station."
Down at the nick they booked me in, and bunged me in a cell.
When I asked about room service, they said just ring the bell.


The bed was grim, I tossed and turned, I hardly slept all night.
I thought about my weight, and food, and tried with all my might
to think of how I could lose weight (God, I could kill a Mars bar).
I'll try to diet, but a gastric band, would be a step too far.
"I tell you what." says I to myself, "When I get out of here,
I'm going to lose about six stone, before the end of the year."


The cop came to release me, he said I'd get probation.
"Just a word of warning, Miss, steer clear of this station.
You banjaxed the car's suspension; you broke the bed as well.
And though we're getting shot of you, we can't get rid of the smell.
Sergeant says you're far too big, you need to get some weight off."
"That fat waster's one to talk." says I, letting on to cough.


A frien who tried Weightwatchers, gave me the information
of points for this, and points for that, and mind the constipation.
Eat lots of fruit and fibre, but always keep the score.
When you've eaten your allowance, you can't have any more.
By half-past four you're starving; you could eat a side of beef.
And what is it that you're allowed? A friggin' lettuce leaf.


I've had a go before, though you maybe wouldn't think it.
Have you tried pureed carrot? I couldn't even drink it.
But I'll have to make the effort, and try to get real slim.
Cut back on the junk food; might even go down to the gym.
I'll phone up for a pizza, and work out a slimming plan.
And while I wait I think I'll have, a Coke out of the can.


I'll red out all my cupboards; I'll get rid of all the crap.
I'll not set foot in Tesco's; I'll not shap until I drap.
I'll get all my food delivered; I can order it online,
all healthy and organic; I should get along just fine.
I'll have no biscuits in the house, and I'll not beg or borrow.
This time I really mean it; the diet starts to-morrow.





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