My Mug Has Gone To Mugland Poem by C Richard Miles

“My mug has gone to Mugland
So I can’t have my nice cup of tea.
It’s offed and it’s went to Mugland
And, what’s worse, it hasn’t took me! ”

I yelled as I peered in the cupboard
To peep for my favourite cup
But found just a brief, scribbled message
Where it should have been hanging up:

“Your mug, it has gone off to Mugland
To sail on the black coffee seas,
To climb up the marshmallow mountains
And swing on the Jaffa-cake trees.

To buzz on the baked-biscuit buses
Where rich fruit-cake flowers still grow
By cucumber-sandwich roofed houses
'Neath sweet sifted sugar snow.”

I grumbled aloud in my anger:
“Whatever did my coffee-cup think
By taking itself on vacation
When it knew I was dying to drink? ”

But our tea-lady, Ivy, soon soothed me
When she found me a new, uncracked crock
Which she filled with delicious Darjeeling
That really went right to the spot.

Next day, when I looked at my doormat,
From the top of a mountain of mail
I picked up a cute picture postcard
Which told me a magical tale:

“I’m loving it here in Mugland -
I’m totally hooked by the taste
Of sailing around in a saucer
With a permanent grin on my face.

I’ve paddled away with the teaspoons,
(It used such fantastical words)
When the wind wouldn’t blow on the tea-cloth sail
And I’ve twitched for the spoonbill birds.

I washed up on a custard-cream island
(I felt quite a bit of a mug)
But, not as much as that strawberry fool
Who jumped in a skimmed-milk jug.

I camped by the camomile castle,
Where the gingerbread men guard the gates.
I bungee-jumped, swung by my handle
With my mates: several forks and two plates.

The weather’s been like a damp dishcloth.
I’m sure there’s a storm brewing yet;
The rain’s coming out like a teapot spout
But it ‘s still very warm, though it’s wet.

I’m sorry I left without asking;
You’ll be dying with thirst for your tea.
P. S. I have sent you a teabag;
You can certainly have one on me! ”

It sounds such a perfect place - Mugland
Where you’re never threatened by thirst
You can sup all the tea in the sweet-scented sea.
(But be careful that you don’t burst.)

So when life brews a storm in your teacup
And you feel like you’re getting the hump:
Just take a break with a cuppa
And some cake and a few sugarlumps.

Close your eyes, come with me to Mugland
To wallow in cups full of cheer.
You may hug with my mug and rest and relax
And concur with its “Wish you were here! ”

You can travel on chocolate-cake chariots
Over forests of fig-roll ferns,
Ride, on the rails, the Expresso Express
And bathe in bottled-milk burns.

You can feast on a fist-full of fancies
And slurp up your tea, black or green
And quaff coffee all day, in a nonchalant way
And finish up refreshed, full of beans.