'Twas the week after Christmas,
and all through the house,
nothing would fit me,
not even a blouse.

The cookies I'd nibble, the eggnog I'd taste,
all 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 battle the dirt.

I said to myself, as I only can,
"You can't spend a winter dressed like 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,
until 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 Years to all and to all a good diet.