Water hot and weather cool,
And in your cup, a magic pool,
Filled with liquid, the amber brew,
And with a sip, the chill is slew.
But alas, the tea is hot,
And drinking is a patience not,
So you leave it be,
And let the prospect rot.
Then time shall pass,
And that wispy gas,
Will be a dream long forgot.
But oh, that curse of brew too warm,
Pales in comparison, to the storm,
Of drinking a tea that’s cold
And feels weary like a heart of old.
Disappointment fills the soul,
We say farewell to our control,
Of temperature and tea’s neglect.
As we pour away the last remains,
We lament on the pain,
And with a sigh,
Then a silent cry,
We repeat the ordeal again.