Attention to dimension makes her diet,
eschew the chewing of so many snacks.
Infernal genes design internal riots
that lard largesse licked up in Spare Ribs shacks.
As denims tear and Danskins go unquiet,
she dreads demobbing into Forties slacks
and takes control and Life Force and spa water
resolving to get thinner than her daughter.

His ‘GUT’ this spring has naught to do with physics.
No unified ideas but belly weight
strains fulcrum forces pressing back his coccyx
and makes him cogitate: not forty-eight
in waist as well as age! He fears his fornix
will soon prolapse. Must equiponderate!
He leaves his lab to flog his lattice, lope
for miles each morning. Spring, eternal hope.

With minds in sync and sinking into Low,
they race like mad along the empty beach
for meters, then they stop to heave and blow
and dream of Bronze and Fit. They almost reach
the chilly surf, but turn instead and go
back to the boardwalk. Donuts! They beseech
the gods who made both them and Fashion Rules
for smaller appetites and fewer drools.