I like my coffee black as ink

And hot as hell, and soft as mink

I like my coffee strong as oak

And bright as flame, and thick as smoke

Its fragrance a beguiling mix

Of bed-of-nails and ton-of-bricks

As rich as sin, as tough as mud

I like my coffee red as blood

My coffee’s brewed from secret beans

Replete with countless rare caffeines

My coffee’s grown by men in yurts

In distant lands’ most loamy dirts

It’s washed in moonlit mountain pools

And roasted slow by screaming ghouls

And ground with care and poured with pride

My coffee’s made so fresh I died

The coffee that my coffee likes

Doth wrack the sky with lightning strikes

The coffee that my coffee craves

Hath teemed the sea with tidal waves

Thou knowest why the rivers burned

The forests fled, the plagues returned

The planets dimmed, the cities sank —

The coffee that my coffee drank

I like my coffee long as time

And mean as muck, and sweet as slime

I like my coffee cold as land

And bare as rock, and mute as sand

Its taste a subtle paraphrase

Of dead-of-night and end-of-days

As blind as ash, as blank as air

I like my coffee white as hair