A gang of biscuits dressed in black
And riding Harley bikes
Rode into town this afternoon,
We’d never seen their likes.
They waggered* round or sat in groups
With cups of steaming tea.
We hid between the curtains
And the family’s old settee.
But in they came and found us
And we shrank against the wall.
They were squat and round,
Close to the ground,
Not very big at all.
But they were many, we were few,
We didn’t stand a chance.
They forced us to the table
And I saw my brother glance
At the cupboard in the corner
Where he kept his gelignite.
He made a dash and threw it as I
Clenched my bottom tight.
And that is what we had to face
And now you know dear Mother.
The reason there are biscuit crumbs
All over me and brother.
* wagger (v): to swagger around in a not entirely successful attempt to look menacing.
© Copyright Philip Barton 21s March 2018. All rights reserved.
