I remember those fears,
During those years,
Making coffee for your cup,
My belly so tense and tight,
Crying hours before you got up,
I knew what was coming even if
I did get it right,
The taste of blood from my nose,
It was too hot or too cold,
The bruising on my cheek,
It was too strong or too weak,
Or maybe not sweet enough
to suit your taste,
Burns when you threw it on my skin,
Years of coffee made joy a waste,

Now making coffee causes me to grin, This time the man on the receiving end,

Says it's perfect everytime with a big Ole grin.