Do not rain on my parade, you stomach rumbling bunk!
Sit back, relax, and do your thinking in a trunk.
You're a pain, a real nuisance, a bother to face.
I'd rather not deal with you, but you won't give me space.

Stomach now rumbling, from frying pan to fire,
I'm here, no different from a deflated tyre.
My hunger's growling loud, my belly's in despair.
I need some food, and fast, to repair.

Had I but Bruce Almighty's superpower,
I'd climb up the hills to the apogee of the highest tower, in an hour!
I'd feed the world, and end all hunger and need.
And famine, you'd be banished, and all would indeed proceed!