The perhaps freaky thing is from the first occasion to the last, the affair leaves me disillusioned.
They pulled shots on more fancy presses' scale Of lo, espresso, than we know, tae thence Pass 'round the little porc'lain mug for sense And comment. Bells and whistles to avail Whomever of sheer grandeur was't? would hail Their newr machines as ultmate for intents, Dad sez. And we rolled 'cross our tongues th'intense Black tazos, sip by sip, til such'd wax stale. Fire up the grill, next: play the epicure, As now mein host two diffrent cuts put to Our palates and good taste. Wine to assure Souls twas the height of whocareswhat, we knew Such conversations, laughter, and for sure: Philosphy. Problem's: I can't think what's new.
See last year's sonnet down there in the pile-up below for a similar but different angle on this above.