My biscuit box is nothing like the sun,
It`s biscuits not so sweet as chocolate,
It`s cookies not so tasty as a bun,
And with its cold, hard lid so full of hate,
I must contest `ere eatings yet begun,
A contest fraught with finger stubbing woe,
That I must fight before my task is done,
And I may take the sticky biscuit dough,
To dip within my boiling coffee mug.
A mug by far less perilous to me,
Than that evil tin, that malicious thug,
That will not open for my milky tea.
My biscuit box is nothing like the sun,
But I`d have no other, for it`s such fun!
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