The only thing that makes me rise
Is the pull of a cuppa hot joe.
I’m pretty much a shambling schmoe
‘Til its molecules unshutter my eyes.
I know it should be clear blue skies,
or the hectoring of a morning crow,
or my lover’s touch so sweet and slow,
or the cat’s plaintive, spoilish cries.
But: what if nature abhorred caffeine?
And suddenly: no more java.
What then of this shallow, de rigueur routine?
Could I make do with a bean that is fava?
I feel that would force the golden mean
fallacy; so no sacred bean, no nirvana.