Dear Easter, I'm so glad to see you, I can't eat much more.
My feasters must be discontinued or I won't get out the door.
My marriage just can't take the strain, my husband's threat was shocking:
If I can't practice some restraint he's going to do the shopping.
He says he's now afraid to peek in any press or drawer
because of the CSI-type scenes of severed body parts:
Behind the Calpol he observed a hen's head with bitten beak
and in the filing cabinet a lamb's tail under NCT.
I add Easter eggs to my trolley while others abstain for Lent:
Concealing unofficial spoils is how the time is spent.
I polish off packs of little chicks and bunnies on hind legs
and then proceed to scoff a range of filled and hollow eggs.
Shuffling boxes, tearing foil, illicit chocolate snapping,
replacing those I've enjoyed then ripping the stand-ins' wrappings.
There it is, my whole confession, I've kept you for a month.
Easter Sunday won't be special but I've had a great Easter egg hunt.
(Explanation: Tomorrow is Easter Sunday. I'm not too excited about all the Easter eggs that we'll have because I've been eating them secretly for weeks!)
