I Do Not Want to Work Out a Bit

(with apologies to Shel Silverstein)

“I do not want to work out a bit,”

Said chubby Jack F’n (Franklin) McSh*t.

“I'm way too busy to help my health.

This email will not email itself.

I’m at my desk; my butt is stuck.

My workday’s seemed to gone amuck.

My father passed down worthless genes.

My gym bag’s filled with magazines.

I’m still sore from when I did that squat.

My cross-trainers have a wicked knot.

I lost my left-hand lifting glove.

It looks like rain-filled clouds above.

I’m feeling feverish. I’ve got chills, too.

It might be Please-Don’t-Workout Flu.

I’m feeling lousy in my bones.

I’d like to finish Game of Thrones.

I’m pretty sure I have anemia.

I’m way behind on social media.

I think my car tire’s leaking air.

I forgot my spandex underwear.
A wave of nausea has begun to hit me.

My personal trainer’s out to get me.

My Walkman ate my last cassette.

Doc says I’m allergic to my own sweat.

The lighting there is too depressing.

My water bottle’s filled with salad dressing.

There’s a popping sound when I bend my knee.

I may have eaten potpourri.

My entire left side’s completely numb.

I’m trying to teach myself to hum.

I’m on the phone. I have to pee.

The traffic’s way too trafficy.

I have a hangnail. I’m halfway dead.

I’m what? -

What’s that you said?

You say I’m looking mighty fit?

I’m working out!” said Jack McSh*t.