With coffee eyes, and hair like hazel,
Our bodies are machines, heating up,
But when you are ready, you want to serve your coffee,
To everyone,
When I thought I was your only cup,
You pour and pour, leaving behind, not a single drip,
All the other cups, have your coffee, on their lips,
Your blend is so sweet, with an aroma of sugared-fire,
But, all men do, is want your drink,
None of them want to think,
But, your filter is getting old, and starting to stink,
I want you no more, all you can do, is percolate,
Now, I will pour you down the sink.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
I would like to translate this poem