Benjamin's bed was a massive four-poster
With just enough room for himself and his toaster,
His microwave oven, his block of blue cheese,
His stock of black treacle and green herbal teas,

Stacks of rice biscuits and fresh macaroons,
Boxes with numerous knives, forks and spoons,
Packets of sugar and bowls of molasses,
Cupboards to store his fine china and glasses,

Small tins of tuna and bags of sultanas,
Baskets with ample supplies of bananas,
Bottles of sweet maple syrup in crates,
Flapjacks and pancakes on thin paper plates,

A suitcase with cake tins and moulds used for jelly,
Salad and coleslaw from his local deli,
Mushrooms from his uncle Sean's latest crop,
And cheesecake with cream and a cherry on top.

There wasn't much hope that he'd ever get thinner
When breakfast in bed lingered on until dinner.
Whole days would tend to blend into one meal.
He'd find himself eating his porridge with veal.

Cornflakes were mixed with homemade mayonnaise,
Along with linguini on some rainy days.
But he vowed to eat with his loved ones instead
As he had a sad Christmas dinner in bed.

He did a good job at transforming his life.
He now cooks for his seven kids and his wife.
They're glad that he's now nearly always awake,
But they're sick of eating his broccoli cake.