ponderous poetry for the hoi polloi



Yorkshire Tea

Elixir of life

Keep me free from pestilence

And save me from thirst!


If you have too much tonic

I’ll be your half-bottle of Tanqueray,

And we can be a match made in heaven.

A. S. Thesia

Sweet Anna,

Whisky-tongued lover,

Come numb my gums and save me from this



Whisky drinkers Laphroaig and centre.



Bittersweet bit o’ sweetness,

You’re cloudy even on the

Brightest of days.


But the Sun’s no match for your


Zesty essence and

Piquant presence,

You are the most brilliant of rays.


Shall I compare thee to a winter’s wine?

Thou art more stirring and more wholesome,

My radiant rosso corsa, coursing through my veins, passing

Skin deep,

Deep trouble,

Don’t rush to the finish,

Don’t drink and drive.


Let me have a spin of your flavour

Wheel, wheel of fortune, lucky dip,

I’ll take the plunge and take my pick from your

Bouquet, the best of a beauteous bunch,

And rest my lips against your blushing

Buttress of butterscotch and blackcurrant,

Que c’est beau!


Oh! Flickers of vermilion wink at me,

My blessed hands rest beneath your bowl,

Like two sconces hanging from a royal wall,

Fire brick, how you make me squiffy,

Love-drunk, vertiginous, verging on brilliant,

Your brilliance revivifies me,

Good beatitude required.


You – rich and round, me – ripe for the picking,

Christ! What a glorious body you possess,

And how you do possess

Me with your crimson kisses,

I’ll play the drunkard, you the Eucharistic Minister,

Administer me with more of your cardinal cordiality,



And so let me drown in your luscious lava,

Davy Jones’ locker, lock me up and throw away the key,

Oh! Keep me keen, just don’t let the stem stray too

Far, Amaranthus, just the two of us,

Soaked by your sumptuous waves,

Flutters, flutter your eyelashes at me, and

Summon the devil within.

Earl Grey

To tea, or not to tea – that is the question:

Just don’t make it too milky, Milly,

Me no likey,

Crikey, blimey O’Reilly,

D’ya call this a cuppa tea, oh really?


“Don’t roll your eyes at me, son!”

Ha! My look of exasperation would make for stronger brews, I’ll have you know,

Two pupil-less pools of nacreous annoyance,

A lesson in how not to tea.


Brew it, don’t stew it!

‘Less you wish to make a mug of me,

With your cups of ailing ivory, which oft I very rarely can see,

Seriously, do you even tea?


Tease me, yes, and taunt me with promises of burnt sienna seas,

But in reality, they’re snowy, chalky, ghostly

Puddles, haunting me with their whiteness,

Where does the cup end and the tea begin?


At around 7ish, so you say,

Post-work and parched, you begin the performance of

Your poorly poured pathetic pots of misery,

You can’t spell Two Teas without two Ts

And too milky those two teas must not be.


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