La Barista sans Merci
(apologies to J Keats)

Oh what's up with thee, sad old git,
  As you sit there faintly wittering?
Your cappuccino has gone cold
  And your phone don't ring

I see a biscuit by thy cup
 Its sell-by date proclaims it old
And on thy plate a croissant stale
  All flecked with mould

I met a lady in a caff
  Her flashing eyes my soul unlocked
Ambrosia her espressos were
  And her lattés rocked!

I spent whole days just sitting there
  Until the caffeine wrecked my heart
While she was there I found that I
  Could not depart

She made me cappuccinos sweet
  With syrups rich with flavours new
And in her accent strange she said,
  "I fency you!"

She took me to her Sighthill flat
  And we the night in passion spent
She asked if I could spare some cash
  To pay her rent

Right there, shagged out, I fell asleep
  And there I dreamed, oh bugger me,
The last damn dream I ever dreamt
  With spirit free

I saw sad poets, musicians too,
  Each sat and nursed his gelid cup.
They cried, "La barista sans merci
  Has fucked you up!"

I saw their coffees, void of foam,
  Their mouths a hollow, silent laugh,
And I awoke and found me here
  In this cold, drear caff

And that is why I sojourn here
  Alone and faintly wittering
Though my cappuccino has gone cold
  And my phone don't ring