I sit at the side of the barrel,
And nobody ever picks me.
I’m the very last biscuit, the very last biscuit,
The very last biscuit, you see.
I’ve not got a smooth chocolate coating,
Or cherries, or currants or jam,
So people complain that I’m boring and plain.
I guess it’s quite true that I am.
I watch as the others get chosen
Until I am left by myself.
And people forget that the barrel is there,
Pushed to the back of the shelf.
Then one day a child’s feeling hungry
And cries ‘All the biscuits are gone!’
Then she finds the old barrel and gives it a shake
And she says to herself ‘Oh, hang on…’
Then she opens the lid and she finds me!
It’s true I’m a tiny bit stale.
And compared to the chocolately curranty ones
I’m really quite ugly and pale.
But the child feels so lucky to see me,
And thinks I’m delightful to eat.
Yes, sometimes to be the last biscuit
Can mean you seem so much more sweet.