January 

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'Twas the month after Christmas, and all through the house,
nothing would fit me, not even a blouse.
The cookies I'd nibbled, the eggnog I did taste.
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 do battle with dirt,

 

 



I said to myself, 
as only I 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,
'til all the additional ounces have vanished.


 

 


I won't have a cookie--not even a lick.
I will only 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 starving, 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!

 

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