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.