I keep my tea bags in a tin,
Seems a good thing to keep them in.
And if you’d care to ask me why?
I’d say; ‘Obviously, it keeps them dry!’

‘You dumbass.’

And also;

It’s a protective skin to keep them safe,
From tea bag burglin’ strays and waifs,
They’re always after me lucky bags,
When they’ve finished nickin’ all me fags.

No damn class.

Anyway;

There’s a thing I’ve noticed, it makes me mad,
A little worried, concerned and sad,
The last bag in the tin, it never gets used,
I’m pretty sure that its feelings are bruised,

That jackass.

You see;

When I get down to three or four,
It’s a sign to go and buy some more,
I dump the new ones on the top,
And this vicious cycle never stops.
(Like a psychopathic penny-farthing.)

Kill it with mustard gas!

So;

That last bag languishes in the dust,
That collects at the bottom, as it must,
‘Cos you don’t want bag dust in your cup,
That would be a horrible brew to sup.

Tastes like ass.

I digress;

So I feel sorry for that bag, it’s a weight on my brain
I’ll stop drinkin’ tea and drink only Champagne
‘Cos I try to avoid it but I always forget
And that sad little tea bag never gets wet

Monkey, flange, sassafras.

There’s not many words that rhyme with ‘ass’.

Fin.
(Possibly dorsal.)

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