It's too late to write what I was thinking about, so here's something silly I knocked out a few years ago:
Harry Tate was dead morose
‘Cos ‘is bird was adipose.
He said it like he didn’t care,
But we all knew of ‘is despair.
He told ‘er, ‘Lass, you’ve got to slim,
You’ve got to work and get in trim.’
And she said like she’d find a diet,
Buy the book and maybe try it,
But ‘er ‘eart it said what problem’s ‘is?
Don’t ‘e love me like I is?
She cut out sweets and starchy foods,
But Harry said it gave ‘er moods.
She tried to live on veg and fruit
‘Cos she’d heard there were nothing to’t.
They was wrong, she had to stop,
She tried to eat the cotton crop.
So down the gym to work with weight-
No worries ‘bout what’s on her plate-
Just every night a little more
Of pumpin’ iron and poundin’ floor.
The fat came off like meltin’ snow
That tummy was the first to go
And Harry said, dear ‘eart, it’s true,
I love you more the less of you.
She kept on trainin’, ‘tweren´t no hastle
Till all the fat had turned to muscle
And she could take an iron band
And rip it up with just one hand.
Got herself a job, she did,
Payin’ her a good few quid,
But Harry Tate ‘e’s dead irate
‘Cos ‘is bird’s a brickie’s mate.
If it's going to work at all it needs a Scouse accent, I think.
Tomorrow, the purpose of the universe.
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