Transcribed below.

When the gardener dumps his coffee grounds in the composter, they are immediately attacked by tiny grey insects that seem to subsist on nothing else. And while they process the grounds into rich black compost, they sing this song:

We are the coffee bugs.
We only process coffee.
We greet champagne with shrugs;
We have no use for toffee.
Some people say we’re mugs —
Some say we’re too standoffy —
But we are the coffee bugs.
We only process coffee.


  1. Occasional Correspondent says:

    I’m no poet
    and I should know it.
    My feet show it!
    They’re Shortfellows.

    How can the Illustrated Edition participate in Poetry-But-No-Haiku February?  There must be some way.  Perhaps, on the 29th, a tercet on a triptych?

  2. RepubAnon says:

    I think that I was a coffee bug in my last incarnation. If not, given my current coffee consumption – I may be practicing for my next incarnation.

  3. John Salmon says:

    Worthy of Ogden Nash.

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