Coffee is mother earth's brown avenger.
The just fruit of our wanderlust's ambition. (what a bad line)
Each day is a case of the jitters,
When far-flung imports start our ignitions.
Would that we cared about what made for peace.
Then we might start our mornings with water.
Instead we use a filter pulped from trees,
To strain our souls through caffeine's tense grinder. (what a bad line)
And so we owe our thoughts to poor farmers.
Unless our muse is drinking free trade.
In that case we're safe from Karma.
Though I shudder at the price we paid.
It's no wonder that none of us sleep sound
When we start our mornings on shaky grounds. (I apologize for this poem)
Friday, August 31, 2007
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4 comments:
Revoke that man's license! Confiscate his pens! Round up his papers and scatter them to the wind!!
My only defense:
I was jacked on coffee.
You were distracting me.
I'm too tired to try a rewrite, even if I knew how to rewrite poetry.
I'm on a deadline.
Mercy!
Dear friend, I only jest!
Mostly!
I didn't think it was so bad. Keep going, you are almost there.
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