by Bruce E. Stoker 2003
At six-fifteen I drink cup one
From mismatched Corningware.
My day starts right, I ?m on my way,
But it barely gets me there.
At seven-ten I need cup two.
It comes in Styrofoam.
It ?s hot and dark and perks me up;
But it ?s not as good as home.
By eight-o-one I pour cup three
Into my favorite mug.
It ?s nearly clear and barely warm
But I have to take a slug.
By eight-thirty I ?ve drained cup four,
Which came from a machine.
It tastes just like old instant soup,
But at least it has caffeine.