Methuselah

Methuselah ate what he found on his plate,
 And never, as people do now,
 Did he note the amount of the calorie count:
 He ate it because it was chow.
He wasn't disturbed as at dinner he sat,
 Devouring a roast or a pie,
 To think it was lacking in granular fat
Or a couple of vitamins shy.
 He cheerfully chewed each species of food,
 Unmindful of troubles or fears
Lest his health might be hurt
 By some fancy dessert;
And he lived over nine hundred years.