With apologies to an erstwhile resident of Stratford-upon-Avon
A biscuit's lament:
To be, or not to be: that is the question:
Whether ‘tis nobler in the mind to suffer
The slings and Arrowroot of outrageous fortune,
Or to take arms against a sea of tea,
And by opposing end them? To dunk: to dip;
No more; and by a sleep to say we end
The heart-ache and the thousand natural shocks
That Gypsy Creams are heir to, ‘tis a consummation
Devoutly to be wish’d. To dunk; to dip;
To sleep: perchance to dream: ay, there’s the crumb,
For in that Peek Freans tin what dreams may come
When we have shuffled off this mortal coil,
Must give us pause: no, look, it’s fallen in
That makes calamity of a mug ne’er stewed;
For who would bear the whips and scorns of time,
The oppressor’s wrong, the proud man’s Ginger Cream,
The pangs of despised love, the hand’s delay,
‘tis the shock of finding half that’s left,
Among the leaves and milky brew,
When he himself might his hunger fill
With a bare Bourbon? Who would shortcake bear
To grunt and sweat under a weary life,
But that the dread of something in the mug,
The undiscover’d country from whose bourn
No Abbey Crunch returns, puzzles the will
And makes the jamless dodger bear those ills we have
Than fly to others that we know not of?
Thus Boasters and chocolate chip make cowards of us all;
And thus the native hue of pinkish wafer
Is sicklied o’er with pale cast of thought,
And Garibaldi of great pith and moment
With this regard its currants turn awry’
And lose part of the biscuit. – Soft you now!
The fair Ophelia! Nymph, in thy orisons
Be all my sins remember’d.
.
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