But soft, what steam from yonder kettle breaks?
‘Tis the kitchen, and she is my coffee.
Smooth and creamy or dark and bitter
I love her just the same;
And all that’s best of dark and light
Meet in her sachet and in her depths
As she gives me strength to clear society’s debts.
If I profane with my unworthy hands
This holy shrine of warmth I must apologize;
My lips stand as two blushing pilgrims
To smooth my harsh touch with the purest devotion to caffeine.
Yet I find my lips I must profane with prayer
Even as I devote them to thee,
My dear, dear coffee.