'Twas The Week After Christmas
'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.
Originally published January 04, 2005.
