Oh my dear Leslie Sansone,
You are my exercise woman,
Who attacks junk in the trunk with a spunk,
Nothing short of superhuman.
But when I put your video in today,
Though it looks just like it ought,
When I go to play it something tells me,
It may not be the one I bought.
Leslie drags on to the screen,
And her usual mantra of “Nothing to it!”
Turns into a horrifying lament,
Of “Ladies, I just can’t do it!”
Her hair lies in a rat’s nest,
Askew atop her head,
And it appears dear Leslie,
Has just crawled right out of bed.
After spending most of the night,
Battling smoothies in a blender,
And her band of fit aerobicized youths,
Look like they just came from an all night bender.
And Leslie says “Today we march to the drum,
Of a slightly different tune,
The only kind of lifting we’ll be doing,
Involves a mouth and spoon.”
And horrified, I followed her,
As she put food into her lips,
And even when she dunked her head into,
An entire bag of chips.
And though with this new routine,
I had my suspicions,
With forcefulness she coaxed me,
To do multiple repetitions.
And while this scenario,
Seems perhaps like a bad dream,
It’s all true and I’m telling you,
That’s why there’s no more mint ice cream.