Twas the month after Christmas,
And all through the house,
Nothing would fit me,
Not even a blouse.
The cookies I’d nibbled,
The chocolate 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 marvellous 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 son’s old shirt
And prepared once again to do battle with dirt…
I said to myself, as I only 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
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 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?
