(After Sonnet 30)
When to the sessions of gut-churning thought
I summon up remembrance of the grease
I have consumed in all my breakfasts bought
In roadside Transport Caffs, I never cease
To feel the kiss of death in every plate
Of saturated-fat-fried egg and chips,
And all the bits, way past their sell-by date,
Of sausage made from sphincter, cheek and lips.
Then do I grieve at just how few short days
Remain to me of this life’s precious span,
Cholesterol having clogged up all the ways
Through which the lifeblood round my veins once ran.
Yet, though I know such food is to abhor,
Please, God, tomorrow grant me one plate more.