(sonnet #MMMMMCDXV)


There was a science to extraction.  Pale
Morn's wintry eye does not observe the sense
I rather feel as boiling water thence
Steams up the pipe, to settle without bail
Above my waiting carafe, as't fail
To know the vacuum meant it'd drain from hence.
And none else trouble-shoots the Pebo, whence
My griefs **** weary thumbs in sheer betrayl.
I know Mum would ask why I bother fer
The umpteenth time to make this work, and brew
A *** of grim frustration joe in poor
Excuse shan't bless.  Dad cites my dreams, to stew
By halves oer this grand failure.  I don't stir
Aught grounds, pray, miss Mum, and what'd aye, subdue?

28Jan16a