Your nose becomes a moth

You may well belch if you devour a text
It also probably will taste unpleasant
'Tis prudent to think on what happens next
Before you eat something that's other than present.

You grow four heads, your nose becomes a moth
Your ankles moan, your knees break into song
You end up very like a three-toed sloth
And the last line always ends up much too long.

And (I forgot to say) your memory goes
Becoming metatextually inclined
You live to criticize. Then I suppose
That after that you probably lose your mind.