I rise each dawn to seek my morning cup,
The dark elixir calls with scented steam;
Its bitter lure I cannot rise above,
Yet joy it brings in every perky dream.
I sip, I sigh, I marvel at its gleam;
Its warmth inspires, its power cannot hide,
A gentle nudge, a rhythmic, earthy theme;
O coffee, you command what flows inside!
Indeed, my bowels obey, they do not shirk,
Though modesty might wish me to recoup,
I own this truth: coffee makes me poop.
I watch the sun arise in amber glow,
Its light a mirror to my steaming cup;
I feel the urge that only beans bestow,
A rumbling tide that will not stay shut up.
I pace, I wait, I dance in nervous sup;
A symphony that flows with nature’s guide,
Each note performed in porcelain’s gentle bow;
No shame in what my inner pipes provide!
The morning’s call, my stomach can’t rebuke,
Though I may blush, my pants will bear the loop,
I own this truth: coffee makes me poop.
The office hums, my colleagues sip and chat,
While I, discreet, find sanctuary near;
The steam may rise, yet none can know just that
I heed the call that coffee engineers.
A careful grin, a hurried glance, sincere;
The ritual is mine, a private rite,
A liquid dance that crescendos clear,
A morning ode performed in porcelain white.
Though subtle as a whisper, none can stoop
To claim my secret, practiced in the troop,
I own this truth: coffee makes me poop.
Some claim the tea, the juice, the herbal brew
Can coax a body to its proper beat;
Yet only coffee knows what I must do,
Its bitter fire drives both heart and feet.
No syruped latte can replace this feat;
No cream can tame the call it does incite.
It is my vice, my friend, my morning cheat;
Each cup a herald of the day’s first light.
Though manners frown, I answer nature’s whoop,
And proudly chant as thighs and cheeks regroup,
I own this truth: coffee makes me poop.
O drink divine, your dark and potent wave,
Though scholars write and sages pontificate,
Your alchemy no mortal can enslave;
You rule my gut, you orchestrate my fate.
Each cup a summons I must celebrate,
Its powers vast, its effects absolute;
No throne can match the one you cultivate,
No crown so rich as porcelain’s tribute.
Though humble as a whisper or a droop,
I rise and bow: my morning anthem’s loop,
I own this truth: coffee makes me poop.
Envoi:
Prince of beans, O herald of the dawn,
I sing your might before the day is drawn;
Your charms compel me to the porcelain troop;
In reverence, I join the morning’s swoop,
I own this truth: coffee makes me poop.