T'was the Month after Christmas

T'was the month after Christmas, and all through the house,
nothing would fit me, not even a blouse;
The cookies I'd nibbled, the eggnog I had to taste,
at the holiday parties had gone to my waist;

When I got on the scales there arose such a number!
When I walked to the store (less a walk than a lumber),
I'd remember 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'd 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 a winter disguised as a man!"

So, away with the last of the sour cream dip.
Get rid of the fruit cake, every cracker and chip.
Every last bit of food that I like must be banished,
'til 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 corn bread, 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!

Author Unknown