Often times I ponder Spam
Is it fat? Or is it ham?
Squashed into a squarish can,
a metaphor for all I am.
When my relations seem ungrateful,
I consume it by the plateful.
straight from the can, with flying fork,
It makes me feel less of a dork.
Tho' my dorkly status has not changed,
I leave the table less deranged.
Gut swollen with a surfeit
of artery clogging luncheon meat
So keep your ice cream and your cocoa
when lifes disasters make me loco.
I fry and gulp six pounds of Spam,
and I no longer give a damn.
