Your excuses are like weak tea
Chamomile at best
Not even brewed, not even squeezed
Dipped, waved over the cup
like a spell
Still your tannins get through
“Just a cloud,” as the French say
(which, of course, you would know)
A cloud over my day
The aftertaste of an addictive drink
You leave my mouth feeling ugly
longing for toothpaste.
I reject your weak, tasteless tea.