She told me that rotundity was destiny,
that voluptuous DNA was in her genes;
I thought as much when I saw the stitches straining
at the denim stretched along her bursting seams.
Her scales bewailed the dangers of obesity;
they creaked their warning 'neath her woeful weight,
as denial basked in bulging folds of nudity
boasting, "Big bones are my Botticellian fate!"
She delighted in her nightly dates with Dinner;
a winner in the can't-get-thinner stakes,
slaking pangs and aches with treats to fill her
hungry heart with lard-eveloped quakes.
"Charge my fizz-free glass and pass the crudités!"
were demands oft dribbled from her drooling lips.
Each canapé - cruel calories 'neath a canopy
of a dress that hid her far-from-slinky hips.
She always said that ample spelled frivolity
though jollity rarely rapped upon fat's door,
and her inner, slimmer, pre-dinner jocundity
died locked within the curse of see-food* lore.
The moral of this tale is 'less is more', they say,
But 'Rubenesque is best!' her voice still cries
in ghostly groans that bemoan it was the DNA
crammed into jeans that should've been a bigger size.
*this alludes to the infamous Seafood Diet - the more you see, the more you eat
I like curvaceous women but there are limits