By Kendyl Brower
Thou art all I bethink at which hour wakens the sun
Thy flavor so bitt’rsweet
Thy stench so stout and heavenly it dominates the house
Thy flavor so tender and kind yet so brutal and overbearing
Mine own mind jumps at which hour thee toucheth mine own lips,
energy races throughout mine own corse
O’ coffee, bean milk from the gods!
I longeth for thy caffeinated touch
waketh me up with a latte!
Blessed be thy macchiato!
Blessed be thy cold brew!
Blessed be thy coffee!