The poem
This year an ocean trip I took, and as I am a Scot And like to get my money's worth I never missed a meal. In spite of Neptune's nastiness I ate an awful lot, Yet felt as fit as if we sailed upon an even keel. But now that I am home again I'm stricken with disgust; How many pounds of fat I've gained I'd rather not divulge: Well, anyway I mean to take this tummy down or bust, So here I'm suet-strafing in the Battle of the Bulge. No more will sausage, bacon, eggs provide my breakfast fare; On lobster I will never lunch, with mounds of mayonnaise. At tea I'll Spartanly eschew the chocolate éclair; Roast duckling and péche melba shall not consummate my days. No more nocturnal ice-box raids, midnight spaghetti feeds; On slabs of pâté de foie gras I vow I won't indulge: Let bran and cottage cheese suffice my gastronomic needs, And lettuce be my ally in the Battle of the Bulge.
To hell with you, ignoble paunch, abhorrent in my sight! I gaze at your rotundity, and savage is my frown. I'll rub you and I'll scrub you and I'll drub you day and night, But by the gods of symmetry I swear I'll get you down. Your smooth and smug convexity, by heck! I will subdue, And when you tucker in again with joy will I refulge; No longer of my toes will you obstruct my downward view . . . With might and main I'll fight to gain the Battle of the Bulge.