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.