Last week I was given a simple assignment at work: clean the tea area. As I was about to set to work, I was given further specifics in this. I do not recall what it was, but I heard "write something."
"I'm sorry, write something?"
Beckah, my supervisor, clarified. But then she laughed. "You know, just write something about how you feel. Maybe a poem."
Little did she know I would do exactly that. While cleaning the tea area, I wrote a limerick. I strove for the style of Geoffrey Chaucer. After all, tea is English in my mind, and England has never produced an author, and certainly not a poet, to compare to Chaucer.
Without further ado, a limerick, a Chaucerian verse, about tea.
There once was a man who drank tea,
but it always made him have to pee.
He pulled up his pants
and he shimmied a dance:
he was trying to hold it, you see.
