This is cute

Twas the month after Christmas,



And all through the house,

Nothing would fit me,

Not even a blouse.



The cookies I’d munched,

The eggnog I’d taste,

The holiday parties,

Had gone to my waist.



When I got on the scales,

There arose such a number,

That I walked to the store,

(Less a walk, more a lumber.)



I’d remembered the marvelous meals I’d prepared;

The gravies,

And sauces and beef,

Nicely rared.



The wine and the rum balls,

The bread and the cheese,

And the way I never said,

"No thank you, please."



As I dressed myself,

In my husband’s old shirt,

And prepared once again,

To do battle with dirt.



I said to myself,

As only I can,

"You can’t spend the winter,

Disguised as a man!"



So away with the last,

Of the sour cream dip,

Get rid of the fruitcake,

Every cracker and chip.



Every last bit of food,

That I like must be banished,

Till all the additional ounces,

Have vanished.



I won’t have a cookie --

Not even a lick. I’ll want only,

To chew on a long celery stick.



I won’t have hot biscuits,

Or cornbread or pie,

I’ll munch on a carrot,

And quietly cry.



I’m hungry,

I’m lonesome,

And life is a bore,

But isn’t that what January is for?



Unable to giggle,

No longer a riot.

Happy new year to all,

And to all a good diet.