Espresso
I have acquired a magical coffee,
From the Amazon; a faraway place;
It goes down well with pie of Banoffee;
A
convenient rhyme, and in this case,
A point of accord, which my wife and I,
(On having partaken of the beverage),
Jointly attained, one evening, post-pie:
Strange thing: after thirty years of marriage,
(Which these days, is itself, an achievement),
My wife seems to have perfected the art
Of nodding, as one would in agreement,
With whatever wisdom I choose to impart
After coffee, which I’m liable to do:
It’s a little joke between us; I rattle
And she makes as if she sees my worldview
As something other than merely prattle;
But this one night, she seemed interested!
Agreeing sincerely with all I said;
And the next day, she even requested
I repeat it! And as I did, her head,
Again, concurringly nodded! Indeed;
A strange thing it was to see her take heed.
This singularly, unprecedented,
Occurrence, we figured, was down to my
Coffee, with which we experimented;
And tests conducted, required me to try
Other brands deemed to be worth exploring;
Which brands all proved to be ineffective,
Inasmuch as my waffle was boring,
And intellectually defective.
Our friends were unknowingly introduced
To the experiment; each one of whom
Was stunned by my clandestinely induced
Intellect, which they were led to assume
Was there all along, albeit sleeping:
I further put them to trial, by switching
Their espressos with one in my keeping;
Earlier pre-prepared in the kitchen;
An exercise, which surprisingly gave rise
To no change in anyone’s reasoning;
Positive, negative or otherwise;
And which led to a baffling, if pleasing,
Conclusion: somehow, inexplicably;
The only person affected was me!
(And I’ve just realised, I’ve managed to miss
A detail, regarding the coffee’s powers,
Which I’ll mention now in parenthesis:
They cease after roughly twenty four hours),
And all you’ve just read, or heard me recite,
(Assuming I still have your attention),
I wrote in the hope of shining a light
On an event of my recollection,
That happened one dawn at Stansted Airport;
An anecdote really, nothing much more,
Though its recitation may land me in court,
And provoke the wrath of the right hard-core.
But so be it! Now, let’s cut to the chase:
I’d been up drinking my coffee all night;
Enough to make anyone’s heartbeat race;
Hence, I was feeling especially bright,
In the taxi, taking us to Stansted,
From where we were flying to Italy:
The cabbie hung on every word I said;
And I very nearly, admittedly,
Took up his offer to waver the fare;
He having decided to quit driving,
On my advice, to go study somewhere
And train for a career in sky- diving!
Fare offer refused; I bade him goodbye.
Feeling quite hungry and thirstily dry,
My wife and I passed through security,
And entered an all but empty café;
I purchased some toast and a brew-of-tea;
And who should I see not five yards away,
But Tommy Robinson! Luton’s proud son;
For many a patriot; man of the year;
Sitting alone at a table-for-one;
Dapperly decked out in Stone Island gear.
Nodding my head by way of “Good morning”,
But giving no sign of recognition;
Lest he mistake “Good morning” for fawning;
I took my tray, of airport nutrition,
To a nearby table; and there I sat,
Still In a state of caffeinated elation,
Bombarding my wife with endless chit chat;
Or rather: compelling information.
“Excuse me mate”, came a voice in my ear,
“I’m sorry to intrude; but would you mind
If I join you? I’d really like to hear
Your views on the patriotically inclined,
Democratic Football Lads Alliance,
Reform UK, and right-wing defiance”.
Hence Tommy, given my invitation,
Joined us; whereupon I gave him my views,
On those topics; along with immigration,
The woke-left-agenda, BBC News,
Palestine, Trump, Islamists and Farage:
Tommy sat silently, nodding away,
Seemingly lost in deep-thought, by and large;
He certainly didn’t have much to say
In any case; even when the Tannoy blared;
“Will Mr Yaxley Lennon please go to gate
Three”, he simply, as if mesmerised, stared,
Oblivious, to the fact he was late;
I gave him a nudge and made him aware;
He looked like he didn’t understand me,
Then all of a sudden, he leapt from his chair
And ran (I assume) to gate number three.
My wife and I flew to a nice resort
In Italy, where we stayed a fortnight;
I gave Tommy barely a second’s thought,
Save a brief moment concerning his flight,
Though whether or not he’d caught it in time
Is irrelevant, regarding this rhyme.
Many months later, on YouTube, I saw
An announcement: “I’ve chosen a new name:
Tommy Robinson, from now, is no more”.
Recalling his voice; he sounded the same,
As the person I’d met and spoken to;
As for appearance; there’d been a sea-change;
His nails were painted, his hair was dyed blue,
And his hippy attire was equally strange:
Gone was Stone Island; both coat and sweater;
Ditched for a kaftan and a jumble-sale top,
With a printed slogan: “I STAND WITH GRETA”;
His cheesecloth trousers (from a charity shop),
Complimented his open toed sandals,
Which in-turn, showed off his feet to perfection;
His wrists were adorned with colourful bangles;
His bearing was of poetic reflection.
Thus, in every way, Tommy was gone;
Timothy Ribbons stood now in his place;
The ugly duckling, if not quite a swan,
Was clearly no longer a right-wing head case:
Today, he’s a highly respected mentor;
A socialist muse for aspiring MPs;
He works as a volunteer at a centre,
That offers asylum to all refugees.
Timothy Ribbons: whoever would’ve guessed?
Such was the charm of the words that came out,
As I aired my views, upon his request,
His transformation was never in doubt;
And if that sounds like a load of old toffee,
I’ll
gladly repeat it over a coffee.
