The Battle of Finrod Feleground and Sour'on
The Battle of the Brew
He brewed as cup of chicory,
Of bitterness, forgery, treachery,
Copying, unflavourful, betraying.
Then sudden Feleground there swaying
Brewed in answer a cup of staying,
Eye-opening, battling against drowse,
Of flavour kept, of milk from cows,
And beans well-roasted, fresh spring water;
Of changing filters and boiling hotter,
Of stains eluded, unbroken cups,
The café opening; coffee that wakes you up.
Backwards and forwards they wrestled over the beans.
Reeling and foundering, spilling coffee on their jeans
The brewing perked, Feleground fought,
And all the magic and beans he brought
Of Elvenesse into his brew.
Sweetly in the cup he threw
Sugar spun by Vardacafé Herself
And silky cream from the cooling shelf,
Using the very best name-brand,
Of spices from the Elvenland.
Then the gloom gathered; a darkness growing
In Valinor, the cocoa flowing
Beside the Sea, where the Noldor brew'd
Their cup of doom, with the Bagateleri feud
They stole in their recipes, and left no tips
In the lamplit cafés. The filter rips.
The cup shatters. The mocha leaks.
The manager mutters against those 'Noldo geeks!'
The customers in the café screamed
Prices increased, milk and tempers steamed--
And Feleground was in the riot creamed.
Loth runs for her life from the angry mobs