Cup on the desk. Order restored. He kicks the door in, made of steam, acts like my kitchen is his regime. I swear “today I’m doing fine”, then he salutes me: “Back in line.” I’m not addicted. I’m just… “trained.” He taps the mug. My will gets drained. No speeches. No pride. Just a tiny tyrant in a cup. Coffee! Coffee! Open wide. Coffee! Coffee! Swallow pride. Coffee! Coffee! Yes, sir. Move. Coffee! Coffee! Back in line! He’s not a demon, just my boss. A warm little threat I’ve learned to bribe. I try “just water” for a day, he laughs so hard my eyes obey. “Smile,” he says, “and don’t look tired.” I drink. I march. I’m re-hired. No water. No talk. Just coffee. Understood? By noon I’m loyal. By three I’m brave. By five I’m staring at a grave of empty cups and big ideas… but hey, I’m fast. I’m built for speed. Coffee! Coffee! Open wide. Coffee! Coffee! Swallow pride. Coffee! Coffee! Yes, sir. Move. Coffee! Coffee! Back in line! All hail dictator coffee! Long live the bean!
