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.
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