The Diet

My wife is on a diet, so am I, her will prevails in setting what we do; no more to breakfast on a tasty fry nor lunch of prime Scotch mince or Irish stew. She loves her cherry cake, but it’s now gone and with it all the sweetmeats from the house; the limits of what’s wholesome have been drawn, I think that she mistakes me for a mouse. If I could find the will or knew the way to help provide new balance to her schemes, although I sometimes think of what I’d say there’s nothing I would do to end her dreams. She doesn’t seem to count those chocolate snacks, but I don’t care what label’s on her slacks.