by Gideon Burton
I'm told my cola beverage is a poison,
its stimulants a fraud of frothy sweet;
its syrups, surreptitiously the reason
that some are born twelve-toed and with three feet.
Alright, it isn't spinach juice and whey.
I know, the carbonation's lethal gas.
Of course, caffeine makes me obey
that spell of craving it so ably casts.
And yet, my cheery cherry cola's true
to me while bad for me: the rush is sure,
--no matter what unhealth it takes me to
--despite the artificial buzz it stirs.
Sometimes you crave the craving, not the juice.
So friends, your intervention is no use.
Feel free to copy, imitate, remix, or redistribute this poem as long as you give proper acknowledgment of authorship. Photo: flickr - Kyle May