his step is like earthquakes that draws many hateful gawks and glares

steamrolling already cracked sidewalks of the broken hearted and depressed

he no longer even sweats, but rather oozes a buttery discomfort

the stinch sticks to his skin like cheap wallpaper



the man still eats and eats
life consist or stripmalls and buffets
knawing only on the fat

the savory taste of an underbelly becomes a beastly delicacy

obesity doesnt begin to cover it
hes beyond the point of no return

as he constantly feasts into his own demise

time for another meal of lard
thanks to the out of shape america