Coffee at the Drip, A Ballad of My Office’s Coffee Machine, Sung in the Year 2015
(after Ernest Lawrence Thayer)
The outlook wasn’t brilliant for the business you see;
The time stood ten to eight with but one single pot of coffee.
And then when Rooney drank two cups at first, and Johnson did the same,
A sickly silence fell upon the employees here that day.
A straggling few got up to go to Starbucks in despair. The rest
Clung to that hope which springs eternal in the office worker’s breast;
We thought if only we could but get a little dribble or a sip—
We’d even put up our own money for more coffee at the drip.
But Smith drank himself a couple cups, as did also Jenny Blake,
And the former was a schmuck and the latter was a flake;
So upon our stricken business did grim melancholy sit,
For there seemed but little chance of coffee’s getting to the drip.
But Smith dug up some unbrewed grounds, behind the closet door,
And Blake, the much despised, brewed us up a little more;
And when the aroma wafted, and we smelled what had occurred,
There was Flakey in the break-room and Schmuck a-gulping thirds.
Then from 50 throats and more there rose a joyous yell;
It rumbled through the hallway, it rattled all our Dells;
It knocked upon the board room and caused the janitor to slip,
For coffee, mighty coffee, was continuing to drip.
Black and bold was coffee’s color as it dripped into its place;
There was adulation in the break-room and a smile on every face.
And when, responding to the cheers, another pot grew tipped,
No worker in the office could doubt ’twas coffee at the drip.
Fifty tongues did slurp it as it plummeted down cool throats;
Fifty bellies applauded when it warmed them like wool coats.
Then when the pot began to empty and had but a precious little nip,
Defiance gleamed in all our eyes, sneers curled all our lips.
And now the leather-covered, 32-oz mug came sidling right on up,
It was big and burly Benny Simpson standing ready with his cup.
Held under the sturdy spigot that mug just took and took—
“This smells so durn good, dunnit?” asked Ben, never bothering to look.
From the break-room, filled with workers, there came cacophonous cries,
Like the howling of a copy machine with papers jammed inside.
“Kill him! Kill the glutton!” shouted someone near the back;
And someone grabbed a network cable to hang him by his neck.
With decaffeinated smiles our mouths with madness gaped;
We grabbed Ben by his Polo; we bound him with Scotch tape;
We strung the cable to the rafters, and slipped the noose right o’er his head;
But Simpson just ignored us, and eyed his massive mug instead.
“My coffee mug!” he cried, and we paused to hear his sounds;
“There’s enough inside for all of you,” he sobbed. “Enough to go around.”
We saw his face grow sad and cold, we watched his tendons strain,
Then we knew we couldn’t kill him; knew his death would bring no gains.
Though the sneers are gone now from our lips, our teeth still clinch in hate;
Our hearts yet pound with violence at Ben’s coffee-hogging face.
Still now the pot holds little coffee, every drop has gone and went,
Still now the air holds sadness at the lack of coffee’s presence.
Oh, somewhere in this cursed world the coffee’s flowing right;
The work is getting done somewhere, and somewhere mugs aren’t light,
And somewhere business folks are dealing dirty, of that we have no doubt,
But there’ll be no hustles in this office for the coffee has run out.