That coffee may look good is not profound
But do we praise the form and rue the taste
And dribble out of mouth and onto ground?
So should we then regret this pointless waste?
No matter what, ’tis such a holy grace
For few things more desired, I would know
Than coffee, which through, my blood does flow
Let me tell you now about coffee. It must be black–so black you can hear the indios bravos clamoring against the injustice of the compradores. And as well so, so sweet (from the brown-caked sticky moscovado the haciendero’s suffering water-buffalo made so that they could grow fat on the profits)–so sweet ,and the sin of it would make the devil wait in anticipation for the shooting to start. But no cream! No, for the beast’s a bull and we’d not hear of it! No! It must be as dark as the hearts of those who oppress us–the innocent–and would plunge it down quickly–ah!–plunge it down so the heat of hell in all its bittersweet oppression explodes past our tongues and throats and greets the devil within all of us–to give us the courage and drown our sorrows and suffering from oppression.