The last biscuit in the barrel
It’s broken all to bits
The other biscuits made it out
The jammie little shits
But this last biscuit lies within
A deep drift of stale crumbs
No humans come to rescue it
With their opposable thumbs
(and no cats either, I’ve no doubt
You’re more than well aware
They have no thumbs to lift the lid
And also do not care)
It dreams of what it hopes will soon
Suffuse its life with glee
The day when it gets lifted out
And dipped into some tea
( vladimir, Fri 17 Jun 2011, 9:52, archived)

He should go join my grandma's biscuit barrel,
he won't be lonely with all those old-timers telling him their tales about life in the 1940s.
( Zuowan, Fri 17 Jun 2011, 10:09, archived)