An Heroic Poem In Praise Of Coffee Poem by David Mitchell

Hail, magical and awe-inspiring bean,
Salvation of the fat and of the lean,
Blest refuge in this wretched vale of tears,
Inspiriting the ever-rolling years;
Thou givest energy to great and small,
As circulates the vast terrestrial ball;
Far better than thine ancient rival, Tea:
Thy praises I shall sing eternally.

Thou art not really a Bean: thou art a Seed,
But since in everything I hear and read
Thou'rt called a "Bean, " a Bean I thee shall call,
And, refuge from our dark and urban sprawl,
Thou wast discovered - or, at least, I'm told,
By Kaldi, a goatherd, he an Ethiope old,
A long time since, or else in Yemen's land -
But, either way, a cup is in my hand,
(My right hand)of thee, each and every day:
This keeps the doctor very far away,
Much more than apples do (that ghastly fruit,
Which all wise men agree to give the boot) .
Each morning, when the skylark wakes the dawn,
And twilight hues descend upon the lawn,
I cannot bring myself to rise from bed,
Which comfortable is - I sleep like lead.
But after I have risen from that place,
And said my prayers, and washed my hands and face,
There is a drink I am inclined to take,
In order not to have a dull headache.
This drink is coffee, made from magic beans
By ancient art. Pray, let us have no scenes.
I drink my coffee straight and neat and black -
I take it from a clearly-labelled pack-
Et, and I make it, then, forthwith, in time -
O moment longed-for, majesty sublime -
My coffee soon is ready for to drink:
What sacrilege to pour it down the sink!
(Unless you wait too long and it is cold
And not fit for to drink - none but the bold
And foolish drink it when it is too cool,
And you, dear Reader, sure are not a fool.)
You may be bold - but then, perhaps, you aren't;
In any case, be glory to the plant
From whence, as in the beanstalk story, Jack
Obtained his magic beans, we take this black-
Ish, brown drink that perfection none doth lack.
Some men there are (or so I have been told)
Who drink this drink with milk, although, if polled
Upon the subject, I should say that I
Preferred it without milk. "But, " ask you, "why? "
The reason, if to say it be not misplaced,
Is simply this: that I prefer the taste
Of coffee black to coffee white; and there
'S an end of that. I hear it is not rare,
Again, that there are some who will descend
(Though coffee is, and ought to be, their friend)
To take some other beverages warm,
In shelter from life's never-ending storm.
For some there are who, every afternoon,
Consider it a great and glorious boon
To have a cup of something they call "Tea",
With jam and bread, or scones, a cake or three,
Because they have the sin of gluttony.
Three cakes! I ask you, who would eat three cakes?
It is too much: he eats three cakes, and quakes.
In fairness to the drinker of this tea,
Tea is quite nice, and, to speak honestly,
I drink (in moderation)tea also,
Though tea be (arguably)coffee's foe.

Enough of tea! And let us quickly pass
Over hot chocolate's rich and sickly mass
In silence. Rather, let us coffee have,
For it will save us from an early grave.
For coffee giveth life to small and great,
Nor has it done man harm - at least, not yet.
A grain of salt accompanies these words,
Words which will not be cast towards the birds
(I hope) , for evident it is to all,
From the most great down to the very small,
That fourteen cups a day will do no good
To anyone, for then, within your blood-
Stream, there would barely any blood there be
But mostly coffee, or yet mostly tea.

O drink that gives the watchman nightly strength!
As hour and hour drag on with endless length,
The watchman certainly would fall asleep,
Had he not coffee, watch with him to keep.
O drink that makes the student concentrate
And makes him pass exams! Coffee, how great
Thou makest nations! For, take thee away
And lethargy and sluggishness all day
Would sadly infect the people of the State!
Yes, certainly thou makest nations great.
For thou giv'st joy unto the soul of man,
And givest energy for him to plan
And execute his actions sans fatigue.
To march for many a weary, lengthy league
With thee is easy, without thee is not.
What magic in this beverage so hot!
For as I told you earlier and before,
This drink, discoverèd in days of yore,
Should not be drunk except when it is hot.
(I say it now, in case you had forgot.)
I should have said "forgotten" - yes, I know -
But blame not coffee for so poor a show.
Sometimes in writing rhymed iambic verse
The best deteriorates towards the worse.

Returning to our muttons; coffee, then,
The second-greatest drink bestowed on men.
For there remains a greater beverage still
That calms man's spirits when he takes his fill
Thereof: one drink remaineth for man's soul,
To cheer and gladden him, and make him whole.
That drink is wine, made from the clustered grape:
That drink distinguishes him from the ape.
- But wine is not my subject. Coffee is
My subject, none more magical than this.
For coffee wakens, wine it sends to sleep:
The wine-drunk watchman badly watch doth keep.
But coffee wakens him all night and day,
And Morpheus* keepeth half a world away.
Without thee, none can focus on his work;
Without thee, man his task's inclined to shirk;
But with thee, all is easy, light, and fun,
And conscience clear when all the day is done.
Thou helpest man remember things forgot,
And givest strength to do them. Thou dost not,
However, help mankind to fall asleep,
At end of day when sleep on him should creep.
There is a thing I do not understand -
I cannot grasp it with my mind or hand -
Why, at the ending of an evening meal,
People, who I suppose have nerves of steel,
Drink coffee, just before they go to bed.
I fear that they are troubled in the head.
For why, when sleep is night's desired goal,
Should wakefulness consume a person's soul?
I bow my head at mysteries so bright
But, for myself, I try to sleep at night.
Drink of the morning, herald of the day!
Thou castest things of night and dark away!
Be taken in the morn, when day begins,
Not when the ebbing daylight swiftly thins.
For then thou wilt enlighten all the day,
And while the sun shines we shall make our hay,
And make more hay than without thee we should,
And make more hay than without thee we could.
With thee a spring in all our steps we find;
Thine absence certainly beclouds the mind:
I give thee line heaped upon line of praise;
I praise thee through the length of all my days.

But comes a time and comes a dreaded hour
When thou art vanquishèd of all thy power;
When empty is the drainèd coffee cup,
When finished every sip and every sup,
And drained must be the grand cafetière,
When coffee is (alas!)no longer there.
- This matters not, for we know that there comes
(O blow the trumpet! Bang the sounding drums!)
Another hour, perhaps another day,
When coffee all our ills shall keep at bay.
Muse, Coffee, thou hast sung thine ancient song,
And gloriously thy strain hath rolled along:
And thine have been the praises of my pen,
Along with those of other, better men
Than I am; all I have now yet to say
Is, Be with me, companion, every day:
For greater both than chocolate and than tea,
Coffee has never yet forsaken me.

*That is, Sleep.

(Friday,28th July,2017.)