The Chocolate Digestives

Once upon an evening weary, stepped I in, from evening leery,
And sidled my lonely way, through the house front door.
I noted that the house was darkened, I listened well and did not harken,
I noticed that the door was locked, and none had gone before,
So I checked the kitchen table, for the post’s delivered lore,
Found that one had gone before.

And when I saw there was no mail, I heard the wind that blew a gale,
Through the flapping, open chamber of the mailbox in my door.
I looked upon the table, I searched from floor to gable,
To find this post that had not fluttered through my door.
And all I saw upon the table when I looked a little more,
Two chocolate digestives, and nothing more.

Whence came these chocolate biscuits? Could I eat one, or not risk it?
I looked around in case I’d missed it, but no confection on the floor.
Was it one or other housemate, that placed these two on this plate,
Someone had, at any rate, come straight in through that door,
And placed upon the sideboard, some metaphoric broadsword,
These digestives, nothing more.

Would either of the Welshmen, the good one or the bad’un,
Would either of these really make my heart so sore,
As to tempt me with digestive, when I need some stern corrective,
The excesses of the season starting at my heart to gnaw.
But they couldn’t, I discovered, either come in through that door,
Or place the biscuits evermore.

For both these men were working, and by that made me certain,
That neither of these housemates came a-creeping ‘cross the floor,
Neither could the good one’s lady, even if the man had bade she,
Place the biscuits on the table as she wasn’t in before.
The house it was in darkness, full locked her chamber door,
Still they cried out: “Never more.”

And my mind began to wander, as my heart began to ponder,
Was this some kind of wonder, placed these biscuits in my door?
Or ‘twas the work of demons, revenge for some agreement,
Where the heart was wrenched right out, and cast beating on the floor?
And still digestives plague me, stab me to my very core,
Only chocolate, evermore.

Is this some sort of reference, to Pulp Fiction in deference,
Toast while Vincent’s back is turned, beyond the toilet door?
I cast aside as empty this foolishness when plenty,
Surely plenty other explanations sit in sense, within the law?
Cannot be the work of madmen, that walked across my kitchen floor,
Quoth the biscuits: “Never more.”

Surely then my dreams are woken, the director has he spoken,
The Truman Show has become my living dream for evermore,
For long I dreamt of waking, to find some camera taking,
A film of my night’s dark shaking to broadcast on Channel 4!
Perhaps Lord Robert Winston must have a hand in this before,
Digestives triumph evermore.

And if some young, poor lackey, should find himself unhappy,
When facing wrath and anguish over continuity flaw,
My hope is not for sacking, nor torture, nor for racking,
My hope is that he sneaks not in again, in through my chamber door.
For these biscuits are forbidden, I cannot eat them more,
Yet they taunt me, “never more.”

My thoughts turned to the villain, if so be that brought chilling,
Upon my mind that’s filling, with dread still more and more.
Do gentlemen still tea-leaf, the rich become the rogue thief,
Do leather gloves and waxed moustache still mark the carnivore? This charming, dashing madman, that stealthed in through my door,
Bringing chocolate evermore.

And was he sat there drinking, my heart dwelt on it, sinking,
A cup of tea from teacup where there was no cup before?
But would such gentry yet live, to sup humble digestive,
While Viscount or the finest Waitrose has, could they afford?
A noble man while thieving, would not eat these things for sure!
Not chocolate digestives, never more.

But what of London’s baser, more terrifying chaser,
The brutish, crooked man whose job it is to uphold law?
What would those men be doing, in my house, perhaps renewing,
Their vigour and their mastery of property, before
Awaiting my arrival, maybe hid behind the door!
Nothing there, behind the door.

The biscuits leering at me, I took my leave, though badly,
Stumbling up the stairs in my efforts to get to the first floor.
The tea that I was holding, spilt but I felt not scalding,
In my haste to reach the sanctuary behind my bedroom door.
For sanity and safety lie, and hear not through that door,
The dark and frightening “never more.”

And so my soul was rested, as theories I rejected,
Amazed that I was bested by those biscuits from before.
My eyes grew heavy laden, and happily I bade them,
Take your rest, my eyes, I pray thee, for the fear has made you sore.
Take your ease and settle back, for you know beyond that door, The biscuits cease their “never more.”

And so, my worries ended, I went as I intended,
To make that finely blended cup of tea I’d sought before.
I looked upon the table, the chocolate biscuits still were able,
To send me to my madness, further than they had before.
For a bite had now been taken, a nameless foe come through the door?The biscuits sat there: “never more.”