My heart is fat
And my thighs are too
She bakes in the kitchen
And Bob Dylan sings a tune
She feeds herself coffee and cream
They come all the way from America,
White goods gleam like pearls
Adorned with a “new and improvedâ€? sticker
Peeling back colourless onion layers,
Her eyes a dull machine,
The centre is rotten and rancid
But at least her kitchen’s clean