I’d eat them all day long, those crunchy chocolate rounds
The ones with shortcake centres; alas, they’re out of bounds
Prohibited and shunned, should I pass my daily ration
Of three. Though odd days I’ll surrender to my passion
For these crispy discs encased in smooth delight
And take another one although my jeans are tight
Already. Each time I shop, I check and if they’re cheap
I’ll buy six packs of eight and stack them twice as deep

I say ‘a max of three per day’, though when I’m sad
Or fed up, bored, I’ll take another one (too bad
My jeans won’t stretch an inch). ‘Tomorrow, two—no more,
No matter what my mood; I’ll seal the cupboard door
With sticky tape and chop up half a cucumber,
An apple, anything that shouts a low fat number.’
That’s what I tell myself when, biscuits gone
I go upstairs to pull a pair of baggy leggings on