Mock Epic: The Dunking Of Doom Poem by ashok jadhav

Sing, O Cup, deep-bellied vessel of fate,
Of tragedy swift in humble breakfast hour,
When Biscuit bold, too confident of crumb,
Met Tea's dark depths and perished without song.
It stood once proud upon the saucer's rim,
A golden disk, well-baked and full of hope,
Its edges crisp, its center firm with faith,
Unknowing of the laws of liquid worlds.
The Tea below lay calm, a mirror still,
Its surface shining like deceptive peace.
With fingers poised—the gods indifferent—
The Biscuit dipped, a ritual well rehearsed.
One second passed, then two (O fatal count!) ,
The crumb grew weak, the courage soaked away.
The hand withdrew—but fate had gripped the base;
The Biscuit bent like heroes pierced in heel.
It fell. O plunge unworthy of the brave!
The Tea erupted, dark and swirling loud,
As fragments broke like shattered shields of oat.
The Spoon rushed in, too late, a helpless aid,
Stirring the depths in search of fallen kin.
Above, the drinker stared in silent shock,
A grief no words of breakfast could repair.
Below, the Biscuit softened, lost its form,
A martyr melting into bitter waves.
At last, a soggy remnant rose to sight,
Retrieved with care, yet stripped of former pride.
It touched the tongue—no crunch, no noble snap,
Only the taste of ruin and regret.
So learn, O mortal, from this morning's fall:
Trust not too long, nor dip beyond the time.
For even biscuits, bold with sugar's grace,
Must bow to tea's indifferent, drowning calm.