Fat. Fat. Fat.

Fat. Fat. Fat.

It's fucking time
to go to bed, again.

Another day over,
another day sober.

Thanks to the man
who the atheist doesn't
believe is up above.

Maybe he's down below.
Maybe he is a she.
Maybe he is a drag queen.

Maybe if I stare at my bicycle
long enough, I'll get my fat ass
on it and ride it.

Well, it's not my ass that's fat.
The Doctor says that fats stored
in the belly are the worst ones
for driving a diabetics sugar count
through the ceiling.

I have a big belly.

I'm feeling good. If I don't look
in the mirror, I won't feel fat.
I'm not alone; being fat that is.
Are you fat?

This guy on the sidewalk once got
mad at me, and all he could scream
at me was that I was, "fat, fat, fat."

I didn't really understand him.
I was skinny as a kid; and he
wasn't telling me anything that
I don't know every time I brush
my teeth.

Fat. Fat. Fat.