Throned in his tower Ixion surveys
His island kingdom, spread out at his feet
From villages across the land there plays
The sound of gamelans, now slow, now fleet.
The coffee, named for this most bountiful realm
Grows full and rich, falls ready to the hand,
Yet in this happy scene delights he not:
Some dis-ease weighs most heavy on his mind.
Dull melancholy drags his spirit down
And coffee cannot wake again his brain
Nor Turkish ground, nor filtered, nor espress',
Nor cumin-flavoured, nor instànt decaf.
Of coffee he has had too much, it seems;
Twitching, he mumbles, sunk in coffee dreams.