I like my cup of coffee, so much I called it Joe.
I drink a swig morn, noon and night, to keep my brain on go.
When empty is my thermos, I wonder what to do.
I ask why Joe has left me thus, yust twitching like a fool.
That coffee is some awful stuff, not fit for man nor beast.
Yet us Norwegians drink it up; be it lunch or supper feast.
My wife says I'm an addict, and she may well speak fact.
But Joe says I'm just normal, and coffee isn't crack.
author: Matt Berge
3 comments:
That's great! I love it!
Oh, that's so good, Matt! The last stanza is my personal favorite. :)
very nice poem!
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