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.