Oh, blessed be the hand that shakes the bag,
the crinkle that summons wagging storms!
No crown, no scepter, no noble flag
commands such joy in earthly forms.
Golden, grainy, baked with care,
tiny halos of praise and peace,
each crunch a covenant sweet and fair—
a love that will never cease.
For kings may dine on gilded plates,
and poets sip from honeyed streams,
but none know joy as he who waits
for crumbs that crown his daily dreams.
So lift your treat in sunlit air,
to tails that spin and eyes that gleam—
the world is good, the cupboard fair,
and love is shaped like a biscuit, it seems.