The beautiful people drink theirs in the sun,

The poet in solitude.

I smell the aroma before it is done,

Perking and boiling and brewed.


When Van Winkle arose from his very long rest,

Yawning and shaking a dream,

He asked, with a yearning, for a cup of the best,

Black – no sugar – no cream.


The onyx liquid poured from the spout

The elixir, the healer, vaccine,

Chasing the demons of sleepiness out,

Fulfilling the need for caffeine.



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