I’m not quite sure what the Louie-Louie Lad means by that “perilous pound.” What in heaven’s name do guys know about pounds, as in weight gain? Do they worry about whether their shirts are too tight? Of course not; the tighter the better. Do they grimace (as in oh, my goodness, what happened during the night to make this dress shrink?) if their jacket feels a bit snug? No; they just grin and say, look at all the muscles I’ve gained with that heavy duty weight lifting.
They never stand there gazing mournfully into their closet trying to figure out just what bit of clothing might … just maybe … fit well enough to keep you from looking either like a frump or the babe working hard to steal all the good-looking guys in the neighborhood. Oh, no, they don’t really know what that pound … or ounce … looks like.
But we do.
And there is no babe in this world good enough to get between my Lad and me. And still be coherent enough to brag about it.
Perilous pound, indeed. Gain all the weight you want, Lad. You’re mine.