ponderous poetry for the hoi polloi



Yorkshire Tea

Elixir of life

Keep me free from pestilence

And save me from thirst!

St. Francis

The day you broke my teapot is the day you broke my heart.


Wicked wretch, horrid human,


How you crucified my

Crockery, no apology,

Only mockery,

Oh Francis,

There’s nowt saintly about you!


Zounds! You insufferable oaf!

And quite right too

That you

Should hang your

Head in shame, like the

Cursèd crown imperial you are,

Ah yes, thou sodden-witted lump,

Listen to what I have to say –


You can’t run,

You can’t hide,

And there’s not a

Racing car in the

World that could shake off my


Dear child,

You are not worth another word.

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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