I dare not taste one drop of oil
For if I do, my health I’ll spoil
I’d spread my bread with gobs of butter
But that would set my doc aflutter.
Don’t serve me poultry, pork or beef
Or I will surely come to grief,
And that fine fish just from the sea
Would, fried, become the death of me.
At breakfast I must never poke
My fork at any golden yolk,
And salt, to which I was a slave
Now lures me to an early grave.
Sugar, friend of shildhood, sweet,
Is now a rare, forbidden treat.
A shot of gin, a glass of wine,
Add up to sins times nine,
For Julia is no more my guide
‘Tis to Nathan Pritikins’ rules I must abide
Farewell to all the eats I love
Farewell, so long, to all the above.
But as I chomp through fields of green
And shrink each day to sinewy lean,
Teach me, dear Lord,
Not to wish each course
Was rare roast beef
With béarnaise sauce…