Coffee 130

My mistresses eyes are nothing like my Coffee.

(Coffee is far more warm.)

Coral is far more red than her lips;

Because her lipstick sticks to the warm, pale mug.

If her hairs be wires,

I am glad there are no wires in my Coffee.

I do dream of her blushing like a maiden rose,

But only when the steam of Coffee hits her face and bounces off her nose.

Though her voice is a sweet caterwaul,

I must admit I prefer the kettles call,

For I know which screech bodes better for me.

I grant she has no goddesses walk,

But still I worship her every morning when she appears,

Holding this true deity; Coffee.

She doesn’t float; but slogs outta bed to pour us a cuppa.

(This only adds to my want of her.)

I may never look at her with the devotion

With which I behold this heavenly potion

But Love is revitalised with each sip;

A Love made as rare

As any belied with false teas compare.

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