A mug of bitter coffe is in his hand

Warming his flesh up to his raven strands

The comfort it provides his sole reward,

For his toil,long held with little regard

Of course,such treatment takes toll on a man

His best will never come,try as he can

His poor work will frustrate him even more,

And no drop of strength will be left in store

In time he he will become merely a shell

A sample of a man trapped in his own hell

And once that time comes,he would've lost all dreams

It's taste can't be masked by sugar nor cream