A womans poem about January

[Saint in Paradise]

I have to confess that this poem about a woman in January is not my work.

 

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 husband'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 Summer, 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?

Unable to giggle, no longer a riot.

Happy New Year to all, and to all a good diet.