Neronic Canephora
Whilst the fragrant canephoras
emanating from within
Enticèd with their sweet aromas
the congregating throng,
Their morning thirst at last to quench,
To the very serving bench
At which the myst’r’ous¹ wench, Kristina,
and mistress Vikki laboured long
To deliver to their custom crowd
A daily dose of caffiene new and strong,
Étienne, the quiet Norman branch, not loud,
But ever the resourceful one,
Watched, bemused by all their antics,
with a song.
There Simone the red and Katarina²,
with abrupt word but true,
Spoke kindly to the sheep who,
at the gate,
Quite forgot the purpose of their present state
But stared with dim and closèd eyes
For Nero, for Napoli
and for their pleasant smiles.
¹mysterious
²I am sorry I had to make up a name for one of you
The crushed bean
Keeping her head in the face of the crowd
Rising to meet demands spoken out loud
Insisting that always the best shall be done
Such is the way of the Russian’s fun
Too much to do let it never be said
Instead let it always pass over her head
Never a day shall pass but her grace shall be seen
Always and ever through the crushed coffee bean
The égalitarian barista
Very many curs have come and gone
Insisting for coffee on every one
Kings ask for more than all the rest
Keeping to themselves perhaps the very best
I serve without favour but not without jest
No better
Éach and every day
They find their way
To take a coffee shot
In their favoured spot
Instantly refreshing
Absolutely ‘nvigourating
Everyone prepared
By Nero’s good laird
Now we can say it
It is no new secret
Nero’s best coffee
Is made in the City
E’en as ye do ken
By good Étienne
Careful coffee
Sometimes in the morning
A new rhyme takes the wing
Instead of song or laughter
It flies in the languid air
Many times it is the thought
Soon a coffee will be bought
Or else the smell of chocolate
Heavy on the china plate
Nero’s is the answer
A coffee fine and rare
Everyone prepared with candour
And with every care.
For the staff at Café Nero, Old Street