A Little Rhyme

My months will number, soon, sixteen
My plate no longer will I clean.
Mommy makes sure I am fed,
Though lately all I'll eat is bread.
Don't give me spinach, beans, or peas--
All I want is mac and cheese
And pancakes topped with chocolate chips,
I swear it won't go to my hips!
I do still love my Cheeri-O's
And placing hummus on my nose.
My milk looks better on the tray--
I pour it there most every day.
My veggies I won't touch of late,
It makes my mom and dad irate!
They let it slide because I'm cute.
They say, "Alright, just give him fruit."