You reach for me first thing,
warm my body and wait.
I hold the heat and watch you
watching me. Give me two,
give me three of your fragrant
Ethiopian or Macchu Piccu
fed by the rain-washed forest.
Give me water from the boil
and wait.
You fill me up,
I give it to you straight,
you drink my hot black nectar,
bittersweet, it moves into your blood,
it makes heart beat and beat.
One hour later you come back..
Repeat, repeat, repeat.
I take no responsibility for this - it's the Cafetiere speaking, I was just the scribe. Obviously it's speaking to me and we have, as you can see, something of a dark relationship, on account of the coffee which I shouldn't go near. It behaves like all the demon lovers your mother should have warned you about - lifts you up high and then dumps you, but you keep coming back for more. Here, you see the pot is almost empty and there is a whole shiny day ahead of me when anything might be possible.
At this point, though, we are heading close to the less exuberant time of 3pm, which a friend has aptly named Crucifixion Time. The coffee elevation has all gone and it is just me, running on pure water and perhaps a cup of herbal tea. And Mr. Signs is at the pub sending me text messages saying that Arsenal are losing the match and could I do something about this?
3 comments:
Powerful brew . . .
http://www.mentalfloss.com/blogs/archives/143678
Drinking beer is not an option :)
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