Jack Sprat could eat no fat,
his wife could eat no lean.
A doctor for them prescribed
a special new cuisine.
Jack Sprat had anorexia,
his wife was too obese,
in both of them, their doctors warned
heart beats were soon to cease.
More veggies for his wife they said,
and therapy for him.
His wife, they thought, could hardly walk
and he was far too slim.
He argued, yelled, and plain denied
that anything was wrong.
A month or two, the doctors knew,
would surely prove him wrong.
He didn’t have a month or two,
or even several weeks,
but a clinic made for anorectics
would fatten up those cheeks.
His wife had nodded fearfully,
she knew he didn’t eat,
and the papers that she signed
sent him to his suite.
The clinic wasn’t quite so bad,
and soon Jack was brand new.
His wife had fixed her weight as well,
the doctors saw them through.