I think to myself as I enter the shop
And find it a parlour of cramped plastic-stress,
But it's good to the last Java drop...?
The milk-steamer, is a screamer,
Like nails on slate, but meaner...
A snake of a sound, all trapped in the space,
Along with the crowd which burst-fills the place.
And I sit with my espresso
A perfectly wired messo...
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