Biscuit.

Because as long as I have one, I'm doing okay.

My skin is quite blotchy; my hair’s rather dull.

The hallmarks of aging envelop my skull.

Some bits of me aren’t where they once used to be.

But do you know what? I’ve got a biscuit.

My house isn’t lavish, I don’t have nice shoes.

I’ve never sailed off on a luxury cruise.

There’s no billionaire on my family tree.

But I’ve money enough for a biscuit.

I’m not chuffed with Labor; I don’t like the Libs.

I’m sick of the posing, in-fighting and fibs.

But I’ll always vote democratically

For the right to lay claim to a biscuit.

There’s crap on the telly and pots in the sink,

The clothes in the laundry are starting to stink.

But most of these things matter much less to me

Than obtaining and eating a biscuit.

It might seem quite silly, to give such import

To a trivial treat of the biscuity sort,

When people are starving and long to be free;

And can barely imagine a biscuit.

But as long as my troubles amount to the lack

Of a sugary, buttery, crumbly snack,

And whether to dunk it, or not, in my tea,

Then it’s quite a significant biscuit.

Because even if something went SPLAT in my head

And emergency staff brought me back from the dead,

My hospital treatment’s effectively free –

And they might even give me a biscuit.