Whose breasts these are I think I know.
But have they always hung so low?
And when did my once perky rear
Begin to look like cookie dough?
Although I’ve crunched year after year
No stomach muscles yet appear,
Nor can I claim as a mistake
The size of thighs reflected here.
Reflection leads to pain and ache.
I wish that this damn mirror’d break
Or that I wouldn’t care one peep
About the dents the decades make.
The price of vanity is steep.
But I’ve no time to whine and weep,
And pounds to lose before I sleep,
And pounds to lose before I sleep.