Taxes and facts all swirl ‘round my head.

The stuff in the morning, a drop before bed.

I swill it, I say it, I drink myself proud:

I am the tea-drinker. Tea’s what I’m about.

They have their fine blends, I blend not my own.

But to a mere snifter, I’d never say no.

To instants I shudder, to greens I give pause.

But to good old English brek, I can’t have enough.

Loose leaf is messy, so I am no staunch purist.

I drink some infusions, but black tea endureth.

There’s a brew for a cold, and a brew for a flu;

There’s one made for bloating, and PMS, too;

I’ve drunk some for temper, I’ve drunk some for blues;

I’d drink ‘em by the dozen, that much is true.

With a drop of white milk, and a heaping of sweet,

My cuppa tea is one you can’t beat.

I sip as I write this, a homage to the drink.

I’ll sum it all up, for the likes of those like me:

God save the Nectar of the Queen.

God bless this land, and let them drink tea!