Once it was in kitchens dark when tools stood proudly on the board
our little teapots languished in the corners of those rooms;
whence fickle fads enveloped us, the Asian liquid’s ox was gored
and soda pop raised up to send the teabags to their tombs.
Yet that was in America, where hula hoops have ruled the day
and Slinkies have come charging down the center floor plan stair.
Poor shredded leaf was covered o’er by dried beans bearing strong bouquet.
Ah, coffee, drink of elder gods, the heavens brought to bear.
In deference to the heathens who would spur fine wine for tree bark soup
the islanders kept faith with their ambrosia born of shrubs.
For centuries the Brits have held, through Arthur, Churchill and their troupe
that tea’s the perfect beverage, once ignoring those from pubs.
And now it seems the Yanks awake, the leaf is favored once again;
our kitchens prone to brewing are now steeping by the droves.
And in their teapot glory, kettles loudly whistle their Amen,
to prayers they’d once again reign proud, atop the U.S. stoves.