Little clouds of cream upon a steaming hot spoon
He turns over his page, prepared to wage a most literary war with Beethoven’s words – the grand old master, dastardly, if you will
Next, the lesser man takes a delicate sip of his barista-trained coffee
Smiles snidely
So much as a bite from a chunk of toffee far nearer the sink
For he knows full-well that he will need to think things through if he really longs to steal all of the aforementiond’s lines
Replicate ’til placating his rip-roaring mind
Rather… I dunno, silently?
Then, and only then, does he spot his wife in one corner, going through her own rather problematic trivialities – only ever peripheral
For, it seems, he has a far more fulfilling vision at hand

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