A mug, its contents swirling round,
from it rises wisps of smoke.
A more tender drink cannot be found,
and is all the finer, when bespoke.

This impartial thing, it does not discern,
who relaxes with its golden taste.
When sorrow rises you almost yearn,
To find its hold with utmost haste.

Milk, it's true, adds a velvet comfort,
and for best results, allow leaves to steep.
A red is soothing, and worth it's effort,
Though give me a liquid both dark and deep.

There is no more a purer thing, for me,
then a truly well made cup of tea.

Penned by my hand on the 16th of Phaestian, in the year 788 AF.