The Raven

Monday morning, cold and dreary, I stand before you, weak and weary
Wandering how much wine I may have had the night before
While I nodded, nearly napping, suddenly there came a tapping,
As of someone gently rapping, rapping at the cafe door.
'Tis some customer I suspect, tapping at the cafe door
Opening is such a chore.

Read the sign! We open at seven!

Ah, distinctly I remember, a cask of red, a weekend bender,
I do my utmost not to heave upon the floor,
Eagerly I wished the morrow, but in vain for with great sorrow
do I realise I must remain here evermore. Or at least till half past four.

Two short blacks, my soul grew stronger, hesitating then no longer,
"Sir," said I, "or Madam, truly your forgiveness I implore,
But the fact is I was napping, and so gently you came rapping,
And so faintly you came tapping, tapping at my cafe door
That I scarce was sure I heard you."
Here I opened wide the door.
Darkness there, and nothing more.

Deep into the darkness peering, long I stood there wondering,
fearing
that I'd agreed to work all day and then all night,
But the silence was unbroken and the darkness gave no token, And the only words there spoken were the whispered words "Flat White."

Please would be nice. Flat white please.

Back into the cafe turning, cab sav merlot reflux burning
Soon again I heard the tapping somewhat louder then before.
"Surely you can wait a second,
till I season the machine, you reckon?
You are a heathen and a pest, and nothing more!"

Furious, I flung the shutter, yelled abuse towards the gutter when
In there stepped a man unshaven, and he sat at table four.
Not the least apology made he, not a "sorry" or "excuse me"
He just made himself at home at table four.
Sat and waited by the door, with The Herald Sun, what's more.

Much I marvelled this ungainly man to hear discourse so plainly,
Though his demand did offend I remained professionally polite,
For we cannot help agreeing that no living human being
Blessed with such a fine upbringing would ever dare to start a fight
So politely I did boast that "we also offer toast"
To which he impolitely asked, with such a tone, for a Flat White.

Startled at the stillness broken by reply so laymen spoken,
"Your monosyllabic Neanderthal tongue's a bore.
However I will inform you and I feel that I must warn you
If you continue to be a prick I will show you to the door.

Ignoramus! Thing of evil! Heathen scum, you are the devil!
I fell my pedigree must now be brought to light.
I'm a writer! I am a writer! You have offended this country's future Patrick White!
I pull shots eight hours a day, though it barely pays my way
And in my spare time, if inspired, I write!"
He just looked at me, smiled, and said "Flat White."

"Be those words our sign of parting, Vermin Scum!" I shrieked upstarting
"Get thee back to where you were not long before!
Leave a big tip as a token of the only words you've spoken
Leave my loneliness unbroken! Excuse yourself from table four!"
He didn't hear a word I'm sure.

And this man, never flitting, still is sitting, yes, still sitting
And may very well stay seated at that table till tonight
For although I'm paid to serve, this is more than I deserve,
My sanity I must preserve,
So fuck him, and his Flat White.

With thanks to Paul Whelan and Edgar Allen Poe.