I had Biscuits,
she was my favourite little puppy.
Cute, fluffy, and brown.
And as I think of her while she's gone
while pulling the trees of nature,
the feeling of despair really barks up the wrong tree.
            I really, really miss that dog.

I'm really just a biscuit,
—that tiny spare wheel we all hide
in the back of our cars.
My closest to a ride, or die companion,
still spinning fresh on my mind.
And the only thing I could confess to
about feeling really, truly tired.
        ****, I really, really miss that tyre.

I had a biscuit,
this time it was really a girl.
And of course it's wrong of me to say,
but for the modern audience, "she was my biscuit."
I used to hold her so tight; I still wonder how
she never once crushed into pieces in my arms.
I guess she was that strong, stronger that whatever
strength of pride I could carry her from.
    Heck, the only girl I really, really loved.

I do miss the biscuits with extra cream
in between, like a life with a few extra
sweet moments, so we could get a good lick from.

   But I never was that big of a fan of biscuits in the first place.