A Poem For A Dear Friend Poem by The silent Poet

After a winter morning,
The man sat down,
with his piping,
cup of tea,
The bag,
Well and truly drowned,
Of sugars,
There were three,

Reading the paper he took a sip,
And voiced his disbelief,

As again he tasted bitter beans,
Instead of subtle leaves,

'O why not just use,
Separate spoons? '
He muttered,
To himself,

After all,
Poor standards have no place,
In this country,
Full of wealth,

Therefore let us not take liberties,
of what was given,
In good jest,
And forget to act,
With dignity,
As if it's not,
Our best,

We mustn't abhor,
Rather ensure,
We behave most courteously,
Using separate spoons,
For the Sugar,
The Coffee,
And the tea.