Espresso

    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.

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