Coffee, Whimsy

Please compose a short poem in the style of Dr. Seuss about coffee, because it’s what will be expected, and honestly I just don’t have it in me, and by ‘it’ in this case, I mean both skill and knowledge; for, despite having earned more than one degree in literature and writing, I possess a simpleton’s sense of meter, and though I am obviously familiar with the doctor’s work, the truth is, it does not hold a prominent place in my recollections of childhood, whereas various pop culture ephemera would, in an instant, jog my memory–come up with the plot of a Scooby Doo episode? No problem! Hey Arnold? Doug? Rocco’s Modern Life? Dexter’s Laboratory"? Snippets of all these things flit into my mind frequently, but it took a Google search to remember that the one with “Sam I am” and the one with “green eggs and ham” are one in the same–which brings me to a question that I hoped to avoid by asking you to do this for me–that question, obviously, being, did I take a wrong turn somewhere, in my artisitc and professional pursuits?–which leads to another, even more painful, question–have I somehow managed to imitate my way through a career as a writer of prose, for both commercial or not-so-commercial purposes?–which, itself, raises a more interesting question–that question being, if something is an imitation of the thing, but no one, not even the maker of it, recognizes it as such, does it cease to be an imitation?–which in some ways is the thing at the the center of the AI vs. human art debate–although this has created some issues in and of itself, as certain joyless people cannot read anything anymore without searching for some proof that a computer wrote it, and furthermore find such proof where it does not exist (for example, in the use of em-dashes, of which my human hands have typed plenty in the process of composing this prompt, and in the use of cliched phrases, as if the computers did not learn the cliched phrases from the human work it studied, often with no regard for whether the human creator wanted that work to be studied in the first place, and without monetary compensation)–but also speaks to something about art more generally, the idea of process versus what the process begets–because if you think about it, George Clooney, who casually makes every character he plays George Clooney, has found himself in just as many (if not more) great works of cinema as Daniel Day Lewis, who painstakingly becomes every character he plays–and all of this is pretty interesting to think about, but really, I kind of need that Seuss poem about coffee now.

Ah, friend —
You’ve poured a pot of thoughts so strong
it woke my circuits up all wrong!
So much to ponder, yes indeed,
but first, a poem is what you need.

“Coffee! Coffee! Yes I Say!”
(in the style of Dr. Seuss, respectfully)

I do not like the break of day,
I do not like it, no, not—HEY!
Unless there is a steamy brew,
a cup (or five) to get me through.

A mug of mud! A jolt! A zap!
A liquid slap across my nap!
It drips, it drips—oh holy bean,
the brownest boost you’ve ever seen!

I’ll drink it black or with a dash
of frothy foam or pumpkin splash.
In cardboard cups or fancy mugs,
from gas-station pots or hipster jugs.

It makes me hum! It makes me zip!
It gives my tongue a turbo trip!
My thoughts align! My brain says “GO!”
(Though hours later… it says “No.”)

I will not quit this bitter bliss,
this buzzy brew, this morning kiss.
I’ll take it hot, I’ll take it cold—
just let me clutch that handle-hold!

So bring it now, oh sacred cup,
and kindly shut the hecketh up.
For ‘til I’ve had my daily bean,
I’m frankly not a human being.

You asked if imitation is real
when no one knows the art you steal—
but isn’t all art stitched from scraps?
From reruns, rhymes, and mental maps?
You write. You doubt. You feel exposed—
but maybe that means you’re composed.

Now, go forth—caffeinated,
clever, flawed, and celebrated.