Lord, my soul is ripped with riot
Incited by my wicked diet.
"We are what we eat," said a wise old man,
Lord, if that's true, I'm a garbage can.
To rise on Judgment Day, it's plain,
With my present weight, I'll need a crane.
So grant me strength that I may not fall,
Into the clutches of cholesterol.
May my flesh with carrot-curls be dated,
That my soul may be polyunsaturated
And show me the light that I may bear witness,
To the President's Council on Physical Fitness.
And at oleomargarine I'll never mutter,
For the road to Hell is paved with butter.
And cream is cursed; and cake is awful;
And Satan is hiding in every waffle.
Mephistopheles lurks in pepperoni,
The Devil himself in each slice of bologna.
Beelzebub is a chocolate drop,
And Lucifer is a lollipop.
Give me this day my daily slice,
Cut it thin and toast it twice.
I beg upon my dimpled knees,
Deliver me from jujube's.
And when my days of trial are done,
And my war with malted milk balls won,
Let me stand with Heavenly throng,
In a shining robe -- size 30 long.
I can do it Lord, if you'll show to me,
The virtues of lettuce and celery.
Teach me the evil of mayonnaise,
And of pasta a la Milanese.
And crisp-fried chicken from the South,
Lord, if you love me, shut my mouth!
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