Down with Biscuits Anyway

Everyone else is entertaining themselves

with phone calls or card games,

and so I resolve to write a poem

about how much I hate biscuits –

simply for existing.

O! biscuit… I start,

before the gears in my pencil

grind to a leaden halt.

I am in the living room –

because I’m middle class –

but the sun is shining,

and I feel that I ought to engage in something

more edifying,

like going on a bike ride

down a leafy country lane,

or kicking the heads off some daffodils,

because it’s that time of year,

and, also, because there aren’t that many people

out and about today,

and I think that perhaps this time

I might stand a chance of getting away with it.

I consider lighting a fire

underneath the next-door neighbour’s car.

He spends far too much time washing it

(Don’t be ridiculous – you can’t wash a car!

my inner car-averse self comments,

in a manner which he believes to be most witty)

and I feel that there’s a lesson to be learned there,

somehow,

but that’s where my putative insight ends.

Rather like this poem,

which was supposed to be about biscuits –

or, rather, my hatred of their existence –

but which somehow isn’t really

about anything much at all.