Mock Epic: The Fall Of The Morning Cup Poem by ashok jadhav

Sing, O Electric Kettle, muse of steam,
Of battles fought before the sun was crowned,
When heroes yawned and destiny took form
Within a modest kitchen's tiled domain.
Grant me the tongue of Homer—briefly, please—
To tell how peace was shattered by a cup.
At dawn's pale trumpet (ringing phone alarm) ,
I rose, still wrapped in night's reluctant fog.
The household slept; the clocks held breath in awe,
For I alone must face the sacred task:
To brew the drink that steadies mortal souls
And grants the courage to endure the day.
I filled the kettle—ocean in its womb—
And set it on the altar, gas aflame.
It roared like Etna caged in steel and wire,
While spoons lay shining, weapons yet unclaimed.
The teacups stood in ranks, white porcelain,
Awaiting fate with handles toward the east.
Then came the foe: O Milk, treacherous friend,
Too hot, too cold, forever out of time.
I poured thee first—disaster! —clouded swirls
Betrayed the golden hue the elders praised.
I poured thee last—another fatal sin—
The brew rebelled, refusing gentle blend.
The sugar leapt, a reckless foot-soldier,
One grain too many tipping joy to grief.
I stirred—three times? Or four? The omens blurred.
The spoon rang out like shield on stubborn shield.
O tragic sound! It woke the sleeping house;
From beds arose the council, grim and stern.
"Who dares disturb our rest? " the voices cried.
I stood alone, the cup my only shield.
I sipped. Alas! Lukewarm—the cruelest fate.
The kettle mocked me with its cooling sigh.
The toast lay burned, a casualty of haste,
Blackened like cities sacked in ancient wars.
Yet still I drank. For thus do mortals learn:
That glory fades, routines will always fail,
And even gods of breakfast must submit
To flawed perfection, lived one sip at time.
So ends the tale. The sun climbed, unimpressed.
The cup lay empty—victory enough.