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| Twas The Month After Christmas | |||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||||
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'Twas 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'd 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!
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