The Treadmill Blues

Like the wetlands out my window,
My head’s in a fog.
I’d probably do well
To go for a jog.
But I never do that,
Not even with the dog,
So I sit at my desk
And write another blog.
“Why don’t I exercise?”
I ponder and pine.
“Because you don’t like it!”
Is my usual line.
“It’s sweaty and tiring—
An utter waste of time.”
This banter’s kept me fat—
Right through my prime.
I could plan out a regimen
As I sit on my butt,
Should I treadmill? Pull weeds?
I don’t know what.
I’ve actually been working,
And it’s shrinking my gut
And even my backside
Well, at least somewhat.
The whole thing’s a menace.
I’m sure you’ll agree:
This soft, pudgy body’s
Not ready to ski.
But I’ve got to start someplace,
I can plainly see,
If I want to become a
A mini -er me
Right now I’m down thirty
From when I began,
It’s slowly melting off
Like butter in a pan!
But now, for the long haul,
I need a solid plan
Or I’ll gain it all back—
And weigh in like a man!
I need to do something—
I somehow must begin.
Dieting alone, well,
There’s a problem therein.
I might just find
(Much to my chagrin)
I’d be a lot smaller—
But drowning in skin!

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