Friday, September 30, 2016


Oh, coffee! Many are the praises sung
Of your black brewéd body every morn,
And many also are the laurels hung
Upon your name save among the foresworn.
I add to them such lauds as I can give;
No paean does my voice so well uplift
As you deserve, but still, while I do live,
In spoken word I'll not give you short shrift
Or in the written word I you deny
All claim of honor and gratitude for aid
You offer me. On you, I do rely
For Stupid God's despite, as I am made.
For if another god has blesséd me
Than Stupid God, the blessing you must be.

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