It's not my fault my weight is rising.
It's genetics, or it's advertising.
It's all those meals supersized
That make my scale's numbers rise.
High fructose corn syrup, that's the reason
My body shape's no longer pleasin'.
And dollar menus make me swell
At Mickey D's or Taco Bell.
I admit my waist is bigger,
But there must be some outside trigger.
It can't be that it's all my fault;
I take that with a grain of salt.
And yes, a pat of butter, too,
And just a spot of cream, it's true.
Alright, I know, I love to eat,
And spend too much time in my seat,
And tend to think that exercise
Is merely torture in disguise.
I wouldn't be so oversize
Were I less stubborn and more wise.
But every day I hear excuses
(Excuses have so many uses)
Absolving me of any blame
For sloth and gluttony without shame.
Pudgy people cannot stop
Chowing down until they pop.
Hidden messages and secret voices
Bombard them 'til they have no choices.
And something in their ancestral make-up
Decides just how much room they'll take up.
It's done, it's through, it's set in stone.
You can't be thin, that bird has flown.
You might as well enjoy the ride
(With hot fudge sundaes on the side):
Eat and drink! Scream and shout!
And feel free to slouch about.
Of course, there is a small contingent
Whose ideas are much more stringent.
They believe that gaining weight
Is not to be left up to fate.
Move! they say, eat less, do more!
Get up! Get out now! This is war!
Beat that fat and beat that flab;
Chubby's horrid, thin is fab!
Voices haunt me in the night,
No excuses for my plight
I'm not in shape to mount a fight:
The fact is that they're probably right.