I leave in Chicago Now (poem)

I leave in Chicago now
Everyone must leave
Leave and let leave, I say
The dead leave no more, they stay
As leaves accumulate on the grass on their graves
They cannot leave, they stay
In the solitary sanitary cemetery, but

All you need is love
Love is all you need
Love is all there is
Is that all?
Don your love glove, Gov.
I’m loving it, while I leave.
You are the girl, Shirl
I am the boy, Roy
Glad to have our gender roles straight now.
Have a whirl with that girl
Don’t toy with that boy.
Or with Leroy Tolstoy.

Do you love to leave?
As long as I’m leaving
I can leave.
I need to leave.
Turn over a new leaf.
Throw out the whole damn book.
Turn over that old leaf, and the gold leaf
While you loaf.

Before you’re old you need some gold
As the cards of life you hold
And do not fold
Cause
Before they made you they broke the mold.

Waddle I do now?

(A riff on Hamlet's soliloquy)

To eat or not to eat,  fat is the question.
Whether 'tis nobler in the mind to supper
The Blings and cookies of outrageous Fortune
Or to take arms against a sea of gravity
and by dieting end them.  To diet, to sleep...
No more, and by starving, end them.  To diet, to sleep,
And by a sensible reducing plan we end
The Stomach ache, and the thousand problems
That excess Flesh is heir to?  Tis a consummation
Devoutly to wished, to diet and push thyself resolutely from the table.

To sleep? Perchance to Dream.... of pizza and fried chicken, Aye there's the rub
For in that sleep of hunger, what dreams may come,
When we have shuffled off those pesky pounds
Must Give us pause. 

There's the respect that makes calamity of so short life:
For our knees

and feet must bear the whips and scorns of getting up and down
And makes us top heavy and unbalanced.

 For who would bear the quips and scorns of skinny folk,
The Pancreatic wrongs, and the smell of garlic and fried food
the pangs of despised love of food, the scale's delay,
The insolence of French people, and the Spurns
That patient dieting of the unsympathetic takes,
when he himself might make his stomach quiet
With half a package of chocolate chip cookies?

Who would the Farkel family bear,
To grunt and sweat under all this excess food
But that the dread of something worse than bad breath
That temporary country from which our travelers so oft return
Muzzles the will power
And makes us rather bear those pounds we have,
And make us fight over the arm rests with other fat people flying coach.

And our unavoidable flights on United or American
Are sicklied o'er with the pale cast of characters
Lightly losing their lunch in paper bags.


Thus excess baggage does make cowards of us all,
And thus the native hue of resolution always begins tomorrow
And enterprises of great bitch and ferment
With this regard just flop over and die
And lose the name of action.

Soft you now, the plumpish Ophelia, Nymph.
Do you have a cookie? 
I'm famished.