The will to move. To sweat.
To feel the breath of my life
Cough forth from my lungs
Escapes me, like a fly.

In the kitchen I forget
The need to feel the strife
Of movement as my tongue
Tastes fat and sugar for my thigh.

“Oh honey, you’re too pretty
To be so fat. You need to lose
Some weight!” Said the bigot
Who hates all those unlike herself.

Had I the will to move… A pity
To blame it all upon the booze.
If only I could close the spigot
And live a life more like an elf.

So gracefully I’d move and play
And sing and dance each lovely day.