I sing the nation’s bloated BMI,
a hypothyroid fat-enveloped Muse –
Gargantua with chafing-reddened thighs;
a waddling blimp with Love and Hate tattoos.
I sing Britannia’s swollen arse and arms,
her triple chins and menopausal spread;
her cellulite and faded female charms –
her suppurating tits and hams like lead.
I sing the country’s dumpy teenage drones,
the adolescent throwbacks rolled in flab –
the cardboard-copy drive-thru lard-arse clones,
engorged with shitty beer and cheap kebab.
I sing this island’s chronic heart disease:
oh thin the herd, oh thin the herd, oh please.