Out of the seething, roiling vat,
filled to the brim with boiling oil,
comes little that entices me
my healthy appetite to spoil.
I cannot live on fries alone,
nor greasy meat on fragile bun.
High-fructose carbonated drinks
don't quench; I nearly always shun.
And yet, I want no expert voice
to tell me, when I'm in the mood,
that I should quarantine myself
from sweet or savory rich food.
Satisfying whole grain breads
accent a doughnut's fleeting joy.
Fresh and tasty garden veg
perk up with butter, salt, or soy.
Ice cream is a just dessert
for patient toil, and not a fault.
I am the captain of my fat;
I am the master of my salt.