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.