Empty, useless, tempting, ruthless
unless I’m on a marathon…(et tu Brutus?)
Not, likely, but they’re so piping hot,
why not get greedy for the barabonds?

I’m playing cards, and I gotta pair of ones,
but I don’t like carbs, they’re no fun.
I overindulge in my love and she
comes, to part where I play stud,

but carbs don’t care, they play dumb,
and practice warfare upon my tastebuds.
I get fooled again and again by a
fiend who pretends to be friends.

My heart is with her, as well as my body,
so my member loves me and our coitus leaves us
throbbing, but I got carbs on me, and it
may sound paranoid, but it feels like they’re watching,

cause carbs ride like mother hens,
and carbs lie like governments,
promised one thing, get some other shit,
straight hatin’ shit, like a bait-and-switch,

like bacon strips with more bacon strips,
mixing bacon grease up in the meat glue,
then adding bacon strips and more bacon strips,
maybe some Jack Daniels and Jim Beam too.

Paradise! Am I right?
Or am I dead wrong like a sweat shop?
I’ll trade a pound of herb for a pound of this
cellulite…(you’re disgusting) yeah, you’re right,

but I feel like a man when I eat flesh,
and if it’s not beer, I feel less,
less piss, less buzz, less fizz, what had
happened was that 6-pack moved in my gut,

as if it made the cut. Ay!
I wasn’t made to sit around, I was made to cut,
so unless I take some runs or do 88 sit-ups,
I make the love handles practical. Baby, saddle up!

She hangs on tight by her ankles,
and aligns her spine to find the right angles.
I go further and farther than I’m able, and
when she yells, I can tell she’s been doing cagles.

She’s a thriller, like I was watching cable,
and I just lucked into her, while I was flipping channels.
When she gets hers, the outcome is fabled, my
inner stallion hops the fence and exits the stable.

Next morning, we’ll be eating bagles.
DOH! You know that dough is stuffed with those f-ing a-holes,
so’s tomatoes and potatoes, con queso and gelatos.
How do I drop those and not feel so waist-full?