Coffee Make Me Poop

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.