From Rude Rural Rhymes by Bob Adams, New York: The Macmillan Company; 1925; pp. 97-98.
COFFEE
I speak the truth, I stand in sooth
Within a prophet’s shoes;
I dare to say that coffee has
A kick almost like booze.
From Greenland’s icy mountains
To India’s coral strand,
My fellow men pay francs and yen
Each for his favorite brand.
It is a mighty stimulant,
A habit forming drug,
As potent as the erstwhile beer
Or cider from a jug.
When this for evening drink I steep,
I go to bed and do not sleep;
When this for morning use I brew,
I fell as young and fresh as you.
Two hours or three I’m on the jump,
But after that my feelings slump.
It is not good for me at all,
It irks my liver and my gall.
Yet when to quit it I begin,
I act as mean and cross as sin.
I shun the cup for many a day
[98]
Then fall once more beneath its sway.
Now, while my weakness I deplore,
I think I’ll take just one cup more.
The flesh is weak and though I aim
Right soon to quit the coffee game,
I hope they keep their pucker still,
Those sweating peasants of Brazil.
I hope the Arab from his tent,
A bumper coffee crop has sent
To carry with it everywhere
Its moratorium of care.