The Dripping Tea Bag
Posted: Mon Nov 24, 2014 12:46 pm
The Dripping Tea Bag
The dry tea bag lay on a mound of grey clay
In an old garbage pile at the tip.
It was long, long ago since he'd felt water flow
Through his body to offer a sip
To a young office girl. Now, his heart all a-whirl,
He lay among green apple peel,
The shell of an egg and a mouldy lamb leg.
In such company, how would you feel?
A shower of rain fell across the wide plain.
The dry little tea bag was drenched.
A bird, passing by, dropped down fast from the sky,
And soon by his string he was wrenched.
Though the scavenging beast wanted tea not the least,
While morsels of food he did seek,
He scooped up the tag with a smelly old snag,
And it caught on the end of his beak.
As the tea bag rose high through the crystal clear sky,
Stuck fast to the bird's beaky tip,
(Though he shouldered no blame) he perceived, to his shame,
That his body had started to drip.
It dripped and it dripped while the bird rose and dipped,
And tea fell on forest and farm.
It upset the sleep of both wombat and sheep,
And it shattered the pastoral calm.
As a matter of course, it splashed on a horse;
Likewise on a grey kangaroo.
Then a drip landed full on the head of a bull,
And the poor thing knew not what to do.
It snorted and roared while the paddock it pawed,
And it tore tufts of turf from the ground.
It issued a shriek you could hear from the creek,
And it spun itself three times around.
Then it charged a great tree that stood innocently,
Protecting from tempest and sun.
Its mighty trunk cracked as the mad bull attacked,
And that was the start of the fun.
This nettled some bees who had been at great ease
And they quickly proceeded to sting.
As their anger it rose, they flew down to its nose,
And proceeded to tug on its ring.
Now, the nose of a bull is a nose not to pull.
You might call it an odd bovine quirk.
If the bull had been mad, this was ten times as bad,
For it now went completely berserk.
The tractor was next. Oh, the bull was so vexed,
It smashed it to small metal squares.
With a toss of its head it stared next at the shed,
As the cause of its troubles and cares.
Well, the shed was soon bust. In a great cloud of dust,
The roof and the walls hit the deck.
With a bellowing sound, then, it had a look round
To work out what next it could wreck.
The farmhouse stood close. You'd not think a small dose
Of weak tea on a bull's hairy skull
Could break up a home that was rooted in loam,
But it happened with scarcely a lull.
In a narrow escape, with his mouth wide agape,
The farmer stood square on the grass.
The bull had a look and, although it felt crook,
It decided to let the man pass.
Then it charged angrily till it came to the sea,
Where it roared till the seabed was mud,
For the ocean took fright and it flowed, day and night,
Till the mountains were buried in flood.
But our malcontent bull still with rage was so full
That it hurled itself high at the sun,
Then it kicked out its light so the sky turned to night,
And it smashed up the stars, every one.
It jumped over the moon like that nursery tune,
But this was a bull, not a cow.
So it thought, "What the hell?", then it smashed it as well,
And that marked the end of its row.
In a state of great grace it spun slowly in space,
And its face wore a satisfied grin
For, though nothing was left, and the bull was bereft,
It still felt it had had a good win.
It had trashed the whole joint. I can't think of a point
Of this fable, but tentatively
I will just offer this this. There is still danger's kiss
In the bliss of a hot cup of tea.
© Stephen Whiteside 24.11.2014
The dry tea bag lay on a mound of grey clay
In an old garbage pile at the tip.
It was long, long ago since he'd felt water flow
Through his body to offer a sip
To a young office girl. Now, his heart all a-whirl,
He lay among green apple peel,
The shell of an egg and a mouldy lamb leg.
In such company, how would you feel?
A shower of rain fell across the wide plain.
The dry little tea bag was drenched.
A bird, passing by, dropped down fast from the sky,
And soon by his string he was wrenched.
Though the scavenging beast wanted tea not the least,
While morsels of food he did seek,
He scooped up the tag with a smelly old snag,
And it caught on the end of his beak.
As the tea bag rose high through the crystal clear sky,
Stuck fast to the bird's beaky tip,
(Though he shouldered no blame) he perceived, to his shame,
That his body had started to drip.
It dripped and it dripped while the bird rose and dipped,
And tea fell on forest and farm.
It upset the sleep of both wombat and sheep,
And it shattered the pastoral calm.
As a matter of course, it splashed on a horse;
Likewise on a grey kangaroo.
Then a drip landed full on the head of a bull,
And the poor thing knew not what to do.
It snorted and roared while the paddock it pawed,
And it tore tufts of turf from the ground.
It issued a shriek you could hear from the creek,
And it spun itself three times around.
Then it charged a great tree that stood innocently,
Protecting from tempest and sun.
Its mighty trunk cracked as the mad bull attacked,
And that was the start of the fun.
This nettled some bees who had been at great ease
And they quickly proceeded to sting.
As their anger it rose, they flew down to its nose,
And proceeded to tug on its ring.
Now, the nose of a bull is a nose not to pull.
You might call it an odd bovine quirk.
If the bull had been mad, this was ten times as bad,
For it now went completely berserk.
The tractor was next. Oh, the bull was so vexed,
It smashed it to small metal squares.
With a toss of its head it stared next at the shed,
As the cause of its troubles and cares.
Well, the shed was soon bust. In a great cloud of dust,
The roof and the walls hit the deck.
With a bellowing sound, then, it had a look round
To work out what next it could wreck.
The farmhouse stood close. You'd not think a small dose
Of weak tea on a bull's hairy skull
Could break up a home that was rooted in loam,
But it happened with scarcely a lull.
In a narrow escape, with his mouth wide agape,
The farmer stood square on the grass.
The bull had a look and, although it felt crook,
It decided to let the man pass.
Then it charged angrily till it came to the sea,
Where it roared till the seabed was mud,
For the ocean took fright and it flowed, day and night,
Till the mountains were buried in flood.
But our malcontent bull still with rage was so full
That it hurled itself high at the sun,
Then it kicked out its light so the sky turned to night,
And it smashed up the stars, every one.
It jumped over the moon like that nursery tune,
But this was a bull, not a cow.
So it thought, "What the hell?", then it smashed it as well,
And that marked the end of its row.
In a state of great grace it spun slowly in space,
And its face wore a satisfied grin
For, though nothing was left, and the bull was bereft,
It still felt it had had a good win.
It had trashed the whole joint. I can't think of a point
Of this fable, but tentatively
I will just offer this this. There is still danger's kiss
In the bliss of a hot cup of tea.
© Stephen Whiteside 24.11.2014
(yes apparently there's more in tea than coffee - is that right Doc??)