But Hayley Campbell challenged me to write a sonnet about biscuits. You don’t argue with the GothDaughter, you really don’t.
They snap between the teeth, are hard, then sag
to pulp upon the tongue. And some are sweet
Some go with cheese. Some broken in a bag
on market stalls. Some form a smug elite
are almost cakes, studded with nuts and bits
of dried fruit, chocolate coated, priced quite dear
Why Florentines though? Sometimes I think it’s
strange how we name them. Centuries of fear
of evil dynasts just two layers and cream?
Why bourbons? Why should sticky currants be
what makes a garibaldi? Such names seem
like last disturbing shreds of history
Nightmares from which we’re trying to awake
turned to the sweetest biscuits men can bake.
And that, BTW, is apparently written in the style of Isaac Asimov