Le Poem De La Sweat

I made a bad mistake a couple of weeks ago andThe more they eat, the thinner they get.
got into a discussion about poetry with my goodIt doesn't seem right, yet what can I do,
friend, Henry County Herald columnist Amy Eason.They're still real skinny, but my stomach's all goo.
Amy likes poems, and was telling me all kinds ofAnd there's a big guy, who's puffing like me,
stuff about them in an effort to convince meHis sweatpants are too small, his gut I can see,
that I should like them as well. She was fighting anWhen he bends over to pick up some weights,
uphill battle because I typically don't like poetry atI think of full moons, the association I hate.
all, in fact, the only thing I can imagine that'sTo my right is a lady, she works hard and tries,
worse than poems would be having Perry ComoNo weight in her chest, but lots in her thighs,
sing a few of them to me. Nonetheless, sheShe's standing there eyeing the sit-up bench,
made me promise that I would try to write one,If she lays down on it, we may need a wench.
and, that if I did, I'd come to understand just howRight straight ahead is a real foxy mama,
rewarding composing them can be. Based on herHer tan lines remind me of the Bahamas,
powers of persuasion, and the added incentive ofHer work-out outfits couldn't be more tiny,
a twenty dollar side bet, I'm going to unveil myIf she makes a quick move, and I might glimpse
first, and I guarantee you, my absolutely lasther hinny.
poetic offering. This tender epistle goes as follows:As for me, I'm on a Stairmaster,
Le Poem De La SweatA pretty good recipe for an impending disaster,
I sit here at my keyboard fair,My legs are feeling like concrete poles,
Sweat beads streaking through my hair,If my brain were x-rayed, it'd be full of holes.
I just got home from working out at the gym,One minute goes by, then two, then three,
In a very vain effort to get fit and trim.The water gods are all calling out to me,
I wonder why it has to be this way,My chest feels tight, my eyes feel glazed,
Joints a-hurting' and old legs that sway,If I don't throw up, I'll be mega amazed.
I'm breathing so hard, it's like a monsoon,Finally, I finish, and I can go home,
I'm sure I could inflate a hot air balloon.And sit my butt down, to finish this poem,
As I worked out, I looked all around,Amy, my dear, I enjoyed this plenty,
Amazed at the different type people I found,Now break out your purse and slip me that
I cussed the skinny people who don't break atwenty.
sweat,