The Starbucks Poet

You sit alone,
in that metal chair,
a gentle breeze,
blowing your hair,

but 'spite this perfect day,
you look unhappy,
as you say;
why are my poems all so sappy?

for you are the starbucks poet,
you sit alone on yonder hill,
where the coffee shop lies,
waiting, so e'er still.

your world is nice,
your poems are deep,
but all those who hear them,
fall fast asleep.

"If my poems weren't so soppy,
I could pay for this coffee"
you mutter as you hold up,
your yet unpaid grande cup.

You live alone,
a sad, sad life,
with no interest whatsoever,
in getting a wife.

but go 'bout your weary days,
and whenever to you someone says,
you poems stink!
go have a drink,
your latte will always be a sanctuary.