The Caffeinated Soul

From a sleep as still as amber

strike to stop the buzzing clamber;

rise and stumble through the chamber;

wed my garments to the hamper.

 

Now at the sink my face baptize:

Another pimple analyze.

Some eggs are amatuerly fried --

It's been a while since I tried.

 

God bless the bean, the substitute

of motive soul, the human root

of moral deeds, the cursed fruit

of mortal man, the reasoned brute.

 

Though silent greys make me depressed

in every suit when I am dressed,

my soul at least is free compressed

to wander meadows unaddressed.

 

But once I settle down to work

I must forget my sacred quirk

And dedicate myself to work

Until I finish with my work.