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A Biscuit Ballad

A poem about — well. I’ll let you figure this one out.

They crumble, they snap, they tickle your lip.
They’re perfect for travelling on a long, restless trip.
They’re solid, they’re soft, they’re round and they’re square.
They’re beige and they’re brown, but with dazzling flair.



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Emily Wilcox

I imagine in a parallel universe I might be a caricaturist or a botanist or somewhere asleep on the moon — but here, I am a writer.