Demon Chocolate

Each morning I rise, my intentions intact.

I know what to do.  I know how to act.

I've vowed to abstain from the wages of sin,

but then I pass the chocolate tin

and I melt like butter in the microwave.

There's no hope for me, no chance to save

this wretched excuse of a man.

Last week my wife tried a crafty plan.

She put the tin on a hallway stand

but emptied the goodies and hid them away.

Where they had gone, she refused to say.

I woke with my usual firm intent,

searched the whole house until I was spent,

then went back to bed in a huff.

I'm not a slave to the chocolate delights,

my willpower's strong, self-control is just right.

Don't suggest I'm addicted, out of control,

don't give me your pity or try to console.

I'll rise above this troublesome strife,

take steps to improve my unfortunate life,

it's time, I think, to get a new wife.

I put an ad in the local gazette,

waited to read the responses I'd get,

but the paper, alas, must have gone on strike.

I'm sure there are queries I'd certainly like,

but no one's shown interest in living with me.

It's beyond all belief, I surely agree.

Demon chocolate!  The Devil's delight!