Fat Men

There are special rules for fat men as they wend their merry way -
A set of laws not written yet as clear as night and day.
The fat man mustn’t wear a shirt of white, or light-ish blue,
Lest he wants the sweat beneath his arms to darken and show through.
The fat man mustn’t run to work or hurry down the lane
Lest his man-boobs start to jiggle, as he rushes for his train.
The fat man can’t eat hot dogs for he’ll dribble down his chins
Which is a-ok for thin folks, but for fat guys is a sin
And the fat man can’t perspire or sweat despite the sweltering heat
Lest it draw eyes to their waistline, and the blame to what they eat.
The fat man cannot dance at clubs or swim within a pool
And the fat man cannot ride a bike or walk his kids to school,
He can’t go back for lunchtime seconds lest he get those knowing winks
Nor forget to wear deodorant lest folks think he always stinks.
Yet despite these rules and dictums against which they have to strive
I can’t help but simply envy how the fat men live their lives.
There’s an air of fun about them, and a sense of ‘what the hey!’
As they drag as much enjoyment as they can from every day.
Each meal’s akin to worship and they savour every bite
As they drag the best of every day and sleep sound in the night
And they’re always much more genial than thin folks, so I’ve found
Which is why, if I could shape my guts, I’d always make them round.