It’s all in the froth,

so they say.

Yet there will be no whizzing,

buzzing and contraptual clicking,

from chrome sprouts to state of the art gadgets.

No melanchony skipping of jazz notes like in the ads,

where the young and trendy wake up to the mourning sun,

in New York or somewhere warm.

no Hitchcock thriller on the box,

with a signatory Cary Grant performance.

Sheep will be let loose, so that from one perspective it seems they jump over the hills and spread their bleats like  ‘i cannot believe it’s not butter’ over the moors.

The bleakish sun, sitting on the cone of trees whose leaves are scared of the winters wind that the take cover in a bed of brittle thatch.

Drearish the sky,  a grey blanket of solemn matter like the the earth will shed more tears.

Crisp is the wind, eager to gossip like the gypsy’s midsomer tale.

So that we realise that we plan our lives on the basis of an internet search engine.

Worst of all, there’s no creme,

What the matter,

a cup of coffee never made joe superman.