  Come let us quit the gruesome tales Of cannibals, and Kings, and things; On such-like themes my fancy fails, My muse a simpler story sings: I'd have you, one and all, consider To-day a bachelor and "widder." The bachelor,—named Robinson, (A clerk, or something, in the City, Just what, we will not dwell upon), A pleasant man, and somewhat witty, But thin,—I've seldom known a thinner,— Dwelt in the suburbs, out at Pinner. The widow lived at Pinner too, Her name Ann Partington, nÉe Gair, And rich,—if what was said is true,— Her age was forty; she was fair And fat—indeed, as for that matter, I've seldom known a person fatter. Should I, an eligible man, In lonely 'diggings' live and die, When I might marry widow Ann? I'll call, and tentatively mention My matrimonial intention." The widow seemed at first inclined To close the matter out of hand. She said: "Yes, thank you, I don't mind," (No shyness there, you understand), But later on said: "No, for us To marry would be ludicrous. Of neighbours round about, For you are awfully thin, poor dear, And I am awfully stout; I must withhold consideration Till there's some drastic alteration." So Robinson determined that He'd put on flesh somehow; He'd try all means of getting fat, And made this solemn vow: "The widow,—well, he'd do without her Till he had grown a trifle stouter." "Laugh and grow fat," somebody said; So, daily, Robinson The comic papers duly read, And gloated thereupon: He spent no end of pocket money In things which he considered funny. And eat!—I tell you he did eat!— While (this was scarcely wise) He seldom moved from off his seat, And took no exercise. 'Twas not surprising, then—now, was it?— He gained in "adipose deposit." He did; and when he turned the scale At twenty stone or more, He for the widow's house set sail, And waddled to the door. She met him—thin as any rat, For SHE'D been taking Anti-Fat!
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