'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 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 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 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 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 boor--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!
Author: Unknown