for william

 

who scratches

who has a black spot on his head

and another deeper, by his tail

who is soft and full

of purrs and kitten dreams

who is warrior with crooked whiskers

who is the bane of the older cat

dignified, paddy pawed older cat

somewhere on the internet

i read this about kittens

“you have a small carnivore.”

william is a carnivore

he is like a raptor,

if you gave him flesh to tear

he would tear it

he attacks his kitten food

and kills it by shaking his head,

he jumps on high tables where the cat’s food is

and sticks his nose in

he will have all the food.

william has half a black nose

and a sliver of sandpaper tongue

who will bite the hand that feeds him

only because it looks like a toy

who hides inside the sofa and emerges

surprise! Here I am!

who does not yet have cat dignity

and so, is always delighted to see me

he shows this by biting my foot

we love him best when he is sleepy

rorschach back to the world

for then he is tame kitten, sweet kitten

not the wild animal that beats

sinew by sinew, drop by drop

in his aching, furry, bestial flesh.

Now for a little (radical, feminist) poetry plus GAME OF THRONES! HUZZAH!

Misandry In Haiku is my new favourite Tumblr.

Cat haiku is also cool.

I could just copy the entire website and put it down here, but that's just super lazy as one of you was kind enough to point out in my last post. So, instead, my favourites of my favourites:

i answer only

to khaleesi. call me “babe”

and you’ll die screaming.

(Segue: Um, SPEAKING of Game of Thrones (also, yay, Sunday! Only one more sleep before I can get a new episode!) I have a kick ass interview with old George RR waiting to be shared with you. It's a long interview in Vanity Fair so pour yourself a cup of coffee before you dive in. Choice bits: the books might've originally been just Bran's story, you can tell who's going to die just by the heavy FORESHADOWING that he leaves in just for you, and George doesn't like to be a douchebag with the show's writers.

Peter is actually different from Tyrion in the books. Just certain basic physical things. He’s taller than Tyrion. And he’s considerably more attractive. Peter is a good looking guy and Tyrion is not. But none of that matters when you see him performing. He’s Tyrion. There he is. And it’s perfect.

Peter Dinklage makes me so confused, because he's a sexy guy, but he's also a little guy, so all my old pounded-into-my-head notions are like, "Whaaa? What's happening over here?" I love when my Notions are Challenged. Here's his Reddit AMA, where you too can sigh in fangirly glory.

Read the whole interview here.) 

Right. Back to Misandry in Haiku, and let's make clear it may or may not be a satirical site, AND it's just funny given all the "make me a sandwich" memes that float around the internet on a near daily basis.

in a rocking boat
with my rocking sisterhood
sailing to freedom

Comments on the site from some include: "Why are you such a gigantic bitch? You know what, I wasn't going to do this but your blog is the last straw. It is now my personal mission in life to make the lives of women intolerable. I will close doors on them before they can reach them, I'll trip them as they pass by, and I'll knock over what they are carrying just because I can. You have yourself to blame, bitch." 

Ah man. Troll Dudes! You make it SO easy!

i’ll never date you

because you are gross. friendzoned?

no. enemyzoned.

ALSO:

misandry is not
a real form of oppression.
shut up men’s rights groups

 Whoever runs this blog, and I'm imagining a Lady in a long Greek style white dress (yes, I know haiku is from Japan, but for some reason in my head she's sitting at a desk, surrounded by clouds, with a pen) also answers all snarky questions with a haiku.  For example:

What do you think trans people are? Crazy people who are just pretending? I'd like to know what exactly is broken in your brain to dismiss trans* folks as you do. You seemed like an intelligent person before I read your FAQ.

Anonymous

i seemed smart before

you realized i don’t agree

with you? haha k!

Just ending with a few choice haiku thoughts for this glorious Sunday.

a proposal

all the ladies will

abandon society

that oppresses us

with only banks

of refridgerated sperm

we’ll build hateless worlds

 ***

"Misandry is mean,

And all the men will hate you!”

^I don’t give a fuck.

***

“women are weaklings!”

i’m strong enough to carry

your corpse to the woods

Read. Enjoy. Love.

Update: I read the FAQ only after finishing this post, because I'm blind, and here are a few questions answered:

this blog is run by a 22 year old radical feminist. i’m white, poor, a nursing student, and the terfiest.

men have institutional privilege over women. women can not oppress anyone on the basis of sex or gender because we gain no privilege from being female. naturally, the people who are oppressed are going to be pissed at the oppressors.

Lines To An Old Dog And To Cookie, Who Is Dying As I Write This

Hail Cookie, family pet and lover
of ice cream and stewed soup tomatoes
You liked cheese and licked obligingly
At the head of a foaming beer when it was offered to you.

Hail Cookie, you liked sex so much
You had two litters of puppies, but
Motherhood was not your thing
And you were happiest when they were gone.

Hail Cookie, you were the powderpuff puppy
Snarling and biting and it was cute
Because you were so little, but then
You grew up to be a grumpy dog even as you loved us.

Hail Cookie, even as you die
You have to do it your way, nothing else
Will suit but being at home,  people
You love stroking you around the clock.

It's a good way for a dog to die,
This deathbed gathering, this praising of your skills,
Such a good dog, who's a good dog,
Your tired tail thumps, you search out my mother's face.

Here with the person you love the most,
I hear of you holding on, you refuse to succumb.
Dear dog, old dog, good dog, bad dog,
Giver away of my breaking curfews and
Teller of good character in boys I dated.


We will scatter, the family, after you die,
And you hold the dubious honour,
Of being our last Family Pet,
Go where the good dogs go, rumble on
To your reward, with other beloved pets.



Dog, you great and noble beast.

Update: Cookie is gone, she had great pain in her last moments, so we had to put her out of her misery. She was buried in her favourite spot in the park, and was surrounded, till the very last minute, by familiar faces and people she loved.

excitement overloaded

verse one:

i bought a new car
my very own new car
it's white with funny looking headlights
and a sweet curvy roof
that the manufacturers call "swaying"
i call it lola--it's obviously a girl
a horn that's low pitched and alto
a slender form that squeezes through traffic
and all. my. very. own.
lola makes me happy in my Deep Insides.

verse two:

for my birthday, my parents gave me a flat box

when i asked what was in it, they said 'plates'

why would i need plates? i asked, i mean

it's very sweet of you, but i'm inundated with plates

i have a lot of plates, i will never run out

it made me wonder if they knew me at all, because

really

PLATES?

and then i opened it and i was sorry for doubting them

because it was a macbook air

and it's gorgeous and i call him macdreamy

and it has changed my life

if life = the amount of time you spend on the internet.

verse three:

my book came out quietly

like a gay man at a straight party

it's sort of lurking by the umbrella stand

sometimes, when i'm passing a bookstore

i pop in to see if it's alive.

i had a party for it
it was a good party
fittingly, it was at a club
where people whisper to you
"do you know this is a GAY club?"
rumours have not been verified. 

You know summer's here when...

.. you write poetry bemoaning your lack of a love life to a mythical person who may not even exist. But still, I quite like this. Not quite poetry, not quite prose.

Love me wordlessly.

Love me with hot moistness under a noisy fan.

Love me so that I am without language, without communicating.

Love me so I am silent.

Love me so I am loud.

Love me at the pit of my belly and the dent of my back.

Love me into knots.

Love me into a straight line, toes unfurled.

Love me with Blake and Eliot and cummings.

Love me especially with cummings.

Love me so that I forget.

Love me so that I remember.

Love me into you, crawled into the space between your lungs, beating.

Love me into smoke, vapours, thin air.

Love me into thick air and fire, so I explode into flames.

Love me.


(And a little later today, the first (and perhaps the only!) installment of I Can Give People Advice. Stay tuned.)

Recycling

I know, I know. My poetry isn't exactly Elizabeth Barrett Browning. But, I really like this one! And it's so appropriate! And my life is very fun right now, but full of very intimate personal details that I simply can't write about. Therefore, may I present Raising A Toast?

Pick a girl, any girl,

The game began,

Over beer,

And drawn into it,

He stammered through,

Foam-wet lips, his once

Desire, before heartbreak,

And growing up and PFs,

Before car installations,

And kid’s names, before

Commuting and down payments,

Before worry became WORRY,

And stress was for old people,

Before health was an issue and

Cigarettes were just smoke, before

It all just became so damn complicated,

And dating was going around and a relationship

Was what you had with your parents or

That old aunt you saw every now and then,

There was a girl and he liked her,

Very, very much, not for

Her childbearing hips or her salary

Or the fact that she liked the Beatles too, or

That they seemed compatible in any way,

Compatible wasn’t even in the dictionary then,

He said, smiling now, but I liked her because

She blew the biggest bubbles ever with

Her bubblegum.

Thank you, you're all most kind.

Because I heart the internet. But you already knew that

Some general silliness seemed called for. It's one in the morning, and eM is skinnier and uncomfortabler than she was yesterday. Why this? Because it seems Mouse's dysentery was catching, or something. I know, I know, it's not possible to catch dysentery, but I've been so ILL all day, accompanied by violent shivering, blocked ears and the complete and utter lack of desire to pull myself out of bed. (Okay, the last one could be put down to many other factors, including the fact that I'm just plain ol' lazy, but I mean I couldn't pull myself out of bed for long enough to even move to the couch and watch lovely Thursday night television. AND I've completely lost the desire to socialise. If that's not a serious sign, I don't know what is.) Anyhoo, I'm off to see the doctor tomorrow, and go on lovely lovely antibiotics that will clear me up--this is probably my punishment for waving my hand about and going, "Hmph. Americans. They just can't stand this country."--but the good news is, all this sickness has led to complete nonchalance about the other areas of my life, because I'm so busy focusing on how to make it STOOOOOOOOOOP. Ow.

Moving on, here is my little frivolous heart, bared for all to see. I think I'll call it My Internet Addiction. Duh.

You could be my Facebook boy,

You could be my status message,

You could be my late night MSN,

You could be my longest Gmail conversation,

You could be my internet addiction.

You could be my Orkut relationship status,

You could be my tagged photograph,

You could be my Limewire download,

You could be my Stumbleupon stumble,

You could be my internet addiction.

You could be my iTunes most-played,

You could be my Firefox widget,

You could be my Google search,

You could be my Wikipedia wiki,

You could be my internet addiction.

You could be my Blogger compose page,

You could be my last login,

You could be my word verification,

You could be my HTML,

You could be my internet addiction.

IMPORTANT EDIT: My heart is officially broken. Delhi is dead to me. It's the end of an era. Sigh. Oh TC, TC, of memories and of sighs, of madness and kisses by the bathroom, of knowing all the bartenders, of having somewhere to drink till THREE in the morning, of being able to sit by yourself and not be bothered, of meeting everyone I knew in the same place, of growing up.

Does this mean we're all grown up now?

The post with a lot of fairly useless links, where I also sound like I'm a little stoned. But I'm not. Really.

It's my birthday!

(No, it's not, but wouldn't it be fun if it were? Or, p'raps not. I DO turn 26 this year, which I think everyone will acknowledge is High Time to be An Adult. High Time. Heh. Every night is high time.)

Anyhoo, I have nothing to say. Really. My life has been fairly calm and uneventful. I finished work on a Major Personal Project, which made me bounce all over the house, like Tigger. I wish I had a tail, some days.

I've decided to buy an air conditioner after several mornings, waking up feeling like I've had a warm shower.

Old Monk and Coke will have to be given up for the summer and this makes me very, very sad, because nothing does it for me like Old Monk. But, after several comparision night type drinking things, I've realised that Old Monk hangovers are now leaving me nauseated and dehydrated all day, while the several large vodkas I imbibed yesterday and a couple of days ago can still get me out of the bed in the morning feeling absolutely peachy. Old Monk, Old Monk, why have you forsaken me? You served me well for close to, oh, nine years now.

I might very well be a sex addict, according to Oprah. I'm not sure exactly what to do with this news.

And to get the link for the last sentence, I typed Oprah Sex Addict into Google, and this made me giggle.

Speaking of things that made me giggle, I happened to look at a cricket match being played the other day--England versus the West Indies, I think it was--and one of the players was called R. Sidebottom. Heh. The poor guy.

I'm not very much of a cricket fan, as you have no doubt guessed. I'll go so far as to say that it is the scourge of our nation and if we spent less time watching people with stupid bats and balls, running around like great Freudian Stereotypes, or six year old boys, and if we spent less time investing and actually giving a fuck about who wins whatever matches and more time paying attention to a country where a lot of things are still very fucked up despite the fact that we have now proudly upgraded from a Third World label to a Developing Nation one, things would probably be a lot better. *coughcolonialhangovercough*

Also, I think it's deadly boring, and I dread whatever major matches India happens to be playing because that means I have to LISTEN to people going on and on and ON about scores and who hit what and how many overs. Not over soon enough, if you ask me. And I don't know why people keep watching anyway, because the Indian team invariably loses. Boys In Blue, my ass.

I also realised as I was typing that last paragraph that it would probably bring the trolls creeping out from wherever they are in hordes. Hah, it's more like a troll magnet. Oh well. You win some, you lose some. Blogging is not a popularity contest.

Except it so is.

Have you ever noticed when you say things aren't popularity contests they usually are?

See? I told you I had nothing to say.

Maybe we could chat next week? Yes? Call me!

EDITED UPDATE: And because I'm home for the first time in a very long time on a Saturday night, I'm announcing a mini contest! Oh, don't roll your eyes at me, this will be fun. So I was listening to We Didn't Start The Fire and I did a bit of a desi version. Only it's not finished, because I can't quite think how to wrap it up. That's where you come in. Pretty please?

Robert Clive, the last Mughal, Mangal Pandey raising hell,
British killed, Indians spilled, no one left alive.

Mahatma Gandhi spun a wheel, Mohammed Jinnah sprung a deal,
Pakistan—east and west, divide and rule put to test.

Nehru came to power, his little daughter learnt by far,
Aim taken by Godse, Gandhi blown away.

We didn’t start the fire etc etc

Indira Gandhi, no relation, launched the colour television,
Family Planning came to be, that and the Emergency

The Golden Temple was invaded, Sikhs felt violated,
Bodyguards machine gunned, Indira was stunned

Sikh riots ’84, worse than they had been before,
Genocide, tales of woe, British said, I told you so

We didn’t start the fire (and so on)

Rajiv Gandhi sworn in, Congress in the loony bin,
Enquiries were made, Gandhi family’s rep saved

License Raj fell apart, the LTTE’s broken heart,
MTNL came about, Bofors cast him out

Chandrashekar came on stage, ended that golden age,
The widow declined, Narisimha Rao changed his mind

We didn’t start the fire (ah, you know the rest)

And this is the part I don’t know what to do with. So, I put it in your hands, oh wise and capable reader. Finish this, updated to present day and you win a prize! (Well, not a real prize. But fame and glory on this spot on the internet, which is nice anyway, don’t you think?)

The Farewell Fuck

A farewell fuck is when you say goodbye,

A farewell fuck is trying to not cry.

A farewell fuck is no messages on your phone,

A farewell fuck is worse than being alone.

A farewell fuck is with an old flame

A farewell fuck is no one to blame.

A farewell fuck is asserting your sexuality,

A farewell fuck rids you of morality.

A farewell fuck is minus the linger,

A farewell fuck is a fuck without clinger.

A farewell fuck is no cuddling after,

A farewell fuck feels very much like disaster.

A farewell fuck is not a stairwell fuck,

It’s an ere-well fuck, a way to say good luck.

A farewell fuck is how I’ll say adieu,

A farewell fuck keeps me reminded of you.

(something I wrote sometime last year, but rediscovered today, so thought I'd share. Not relevant, but still, good poetry, right? :))

The Girl Who Snubbed Christmas

'Twas two nights before Christmas,
And out on the town,
Young eM took her friends out,
To let joyness abound.

Two friends she had known,
For six years or more,
One friend from a year back,
Another for about four.

Most of them single,
Some newly so,
eM single for ages,
Just going with the flow.

Who needs holiday season,
she asked with a cry,
It just makes you melancholy,
And miss some stupid guy.

I'm too old for Christmas,
Was what she thought next,
Santa? Christmas stockings?
They leave me quite vexed!


But first, I should think,
A back story you need,
An insight into eM's mind
For this story to proceed.

Every year in December,
Tis as if it was a plague,
Depression comes upon her,
She becomes appallingly vague.

It's too much to handle,
Birthday, Christmas cheer,
Normally she'd like to stay in bed,
Until the New Year.

But, two nights before Christmas,
A miracle was born,
Inner Zen was developed,
And she was no longer forlorn.

Christmas? I can deal,
She said with a smile,
New Year's Eve is a piece of cake,
I haven't felt this way in a while.

Perhaps it was the change of scene,
The dreaded upcoming move,
But come sunny Christmas morn,
eM had regained her groove.

It is a Christmas miracle!
She exclaimed with a grin,
Doldrums have gone away from me,
Now pass the tonic and gin.


(Happy Christmas and a Merry New Year!)

This could be Rotterdam or anywhere, Liverpool or Rome, coz Rotterdam is anywhere, anywhere alone (The Holiday Special Bonus Post)

A) How cool am I?

I am ensconsced in my mother's house on my two-week vacation. She's out of town, so it's sorta like living alone except with the luxuries of cook and warm dog sleeping on my feet. Oestensibly, this is so that I can rejuvenate, get some chores done and all that jazz, but the electricity went all morning and the computer wasn't working so I curled up on the couch and read Rohinton Mistry for the hundredth time and when the electricity finally came back I started watching Friends Season 10 and those things are bloody addictive.


So here it is, 5.57 pm on Christmas Day. Elsewhere in the world, people have probably just woken up and started opening up a flurry of presents and preparing for family dinner and I am alone.



Strangely though, I'm not sad. I'm quite enjoying this solitude and resting, it doesn't really feel like Christmas. It's been like that all December, usually the month I'm most depressed because of my birthday and Christmas and New Year's Eve, because I always feel terribly let down once the day is over. Sorta blah. Sorta, was this what all the fuss was about? This year, though, I must've done something right, or else acquired zen like qualities, because I expected nothing. And because I expect nothing, everywhere I go, every party I'm invited to, I have, if not a really good time, an enjoyable evening. Last year, I was morbidly depressed. I wept at midnight on December 31st and called K in Goa and demanded to know why he had broken up with me. I begged him to reconsider and for us to get back together.


Last year this time, I was a wimp.


B) In which nostalgia figures in a big way


Oh, rooteling through my stuff the other day I found this notebook I used to have in college for my * ahem * creative outpourings. It had some terrible short stories, about this girl who loved a boy who had cancer and he died and about twins who were adopted by different families only to be reunited.


But it also had this list of New Year's resolutions, with a doodle of a mermaid in the corner.
1) Not let anyone matter too much.
2) Not get irritated easily.
3) Say yes to every opportunity
4) Catch up on old friends.
5) Write a lot.
6) Make a BUDGET (or beg for more money)


I'm still working on those, as you can see. Except the irritation one intrigues me. Did I really lose my temper once upon a time? Now my temper is so repressed, I burst into tears when I’m angry. I smile tightly when I'm pissed off and I go into my room and simmer alone with my rage.


Also within this glorious notebook, which is green and has Daffy Duck on the cover, is this work of genius.


Called the Singles Christmas Carols Selection, here it is for your edification.

* Jingle bells, what the hell
I know you don’t care,
This season sucks
And if that ain’t ‘nough
You’re fucking her as well.


* Joy to the world,
The Loser has come,
Let Earth receive her Queen (receive her Queen!)
She sits at home,
Alone by the phone,
And waits for it to ring,
And waits for it to ring,
And waits, and wa-aits for it to ring.


And my personal favourite:


*Tis the season to be jolly,
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-laaa,
Why am I so melancholy?
Fa-la-la-la-la, la-la-la-la.
Everywhere I look I see them,
Fa-la, la-la-la, la-la-laaaaa,
Happy couples, ad nauseam,
Fa-la-la-la, la-la-la-laaaaaaaaaaa.



Ek Chhoti Si Love Story

My TC conversion is almost complete. Vignesh is in town, bringing with him a purty zippo for moi, with, get this, eM engraved on it! Yay! Anyway, so he couldn't be in Delhi and NOT go to TC, which is exactly what I told Gamesmaster as well.


Anyway, so Vignesh came once on a Wednesday with me and then, surprise surprise, he went there AGAIN of his OWN volition on Friday, which was also the day the Gamesmaster happened to be dropping in.


I might be single and alone this Christmas, but the vibes that flew back and forth between those two had to be seen to be believed. There was lots of arm-touching and cheek-kissing and at one point, much to the general merriment of Small and I, Vignesh picked up the Gamesmaster and sorta carried him around for a bit. Good fun was had by all—well, at least by me and Small. I can't vouch for the other two, but they looked all happy and mushy.


Ah, young love. The blogsphere conspires to bring two hearts together and all in the smoky, rather noisy, but still so romantic atmosphere of Turquoise Cottage. See, I’m not the only one who gets lucky there. Even though, as far as I know, both men are straight, stranger things have happened right? (And I should probably stop writing right about now or risk being beaten up by either. Or both.) Ooh, one last thing and I’ll stop, I promise.


We here at The Compulsive Confessor do hope you will join us in wishing the happy couple much luck and success in their future.


Hehehehehehehehehehehehe.


Okay, I’m done. But say the word and I'll post the picture.*


Have yourselves a very merry little Christmas and I hope you're all having as good a time as I am.


* You did, so I did :)

I am

a shrinking flower
a maid empowered
chronically late
a wednesday date
weak in places
sucker for pretty faces
a silk cut smoker
afraid of my broker
assertive at times
terrible at rhymes
a loyal friend
a means without an end
sometimes very lazy
prone to being hazy
a nighttime daydreamer
a balcony screamer
a theme song singer
a doorbell multiple ringer
a feminine creature
a no-drugs preacher
a bargain shopper
a three pub hopper
sometimes good, sometimes very bad
at this moment, a little sad



post script:
Blog Quake Day.
Spread the word.
Desi Pundit and Indian Writing have good posts up. And the latest India Today has some pictures which you should look at. Especially one of this injured baby girl being fed milk.

in which we realise that poetry is really not a viable career option

life updates in verse, angst-y style:

i meet boys
one thirty, photographer
with a peter pan smile
he asks me if i'm taken
with boyfriend, am i married?
i shake my head
trying not to laugh
we're having drinks soon.




one's my age,
little older, maybe younger
i flirt through our common friends
and sometimes he flirts back
it's nothing though
it's going nowhere
he likes the high maintainence girls
and i couldn't be arsed.




the house is pretty
the bathtub's blue
the kitchen too
and the floors are new
woo-hoo!


seema's gone and we wish
she could have stayed longer, surely
england has nothing to offer that
we can't, right here, i mean
hello, what about mb's? and buzz?
and all those places where we drank and
were so cool and so unbearably witty and
friendships were made and characters
assasinated and you really
should have stayed.

The Seduction Of Men

Have been re-reading Old Possum's Book Of Practical Cats by T.S Eliot and so I decided to attempt a parody, based on recent and not-so-recent experience. :)

By the way, the original poem is The Naming Of Cats, over here, set to music by the marvellous Andrew Lloyd Weber which you should totally download.

Anyway. Ahem.


The seduction of men is a difficult matter,
It isn't just one of your holiday games,
You may think at first I'm as mad as a hatter,
When I tell you to focus solely on your aim(s).



First of all, there's the make-up, applied slowly, applied well,
Such as Yves St. Laurent, or Revlon, or Maybelline,
Such as Lakme or Gerda Spillman or Chanel,
All of them guaranteed to make your face look clean.



You can use some perfume to make yourself smell divine,
Such as Tommy Girl, or Cool Water or Escada or Isis,
Such as Pleasures or J'Adore or Bvlgari or Calvin Klein,
And all of them available for fixed prices.



But (and this is tricky) a man needs attention,
More than your perfume or your make-up brands,
So be assertive, ex-boyfriends do not mention,
And he'll soon be eating out of your hands.



I may have stretched the truth and the rhyme,
But really, I have nothing further to say,
These days I have very little, sometime no, time,
And blogging simply can't be done every day.



Parodies are not something I do well,
I'm the first to admit it, but don't too heartily agree,
I wish the race of men whom I encounter would burn in hell,
Or at least, think twice, think three times, before they fuck with me.



[Oof. That was harder than I thought it would be. Really. I'll stick with prose, now, thank you very much. Prose is totally the way to go. Oh, and please don't take my advice in this poem, I was experimenting with poetic license. I never wear make-up, except for a little kajal. Be yourself (actually, that's crap because if everyone GOT everyone else just by being themselves, there would be no single women in this world. I hate this whole "be yourself" bullshit.) Let me rephrase: be smart, be sexy and be comfortable. Okay? It should work. Either way, let me know how it goes :)]

Lines For The Man In The Office Pantry Who STILL Hasn't Brought Me Coffee

Who governs the man upstairs
I don't know if he sees me
I don't know if he cares
I ask him for coffee so many times
I even have minutes to think of these rhymes
Terrible poetry, I totally agree
But won't you feel a little sorry for me
All I want is some coffee to do my job well
With not too much milk, and please no onion smell
It's a small request, so stop being a tease
Coffee, coffee, coffee PLEASE!