Medium Grind: A Detective's Story

That java place on the corner still does things the old fashioned
way, I hear, though no first hand accounts exist to confirm it.
The fat cats go in the front door, the ones that go in the back
way they call hits, lets just say there's more than caffiene hits
being dispensed in a pour. A lump or two is a sweet finish.
You bring them star notes, they call it a 'starbuck',
some calling card for more 'percs'. They can't amount
to more than a hill of roasted beans if you ask me.

I heard Joe owed them money, they put the press to him.
To the business, everyone's a Joe, most are single origin,
there's plenty of those around. They're famous for their
red velvet cup, heart drawn in it.  The old timer who
sits out front swears by it, says it's like a meal.
He smiles with a glint in his eye boasting of his
wife's kidney pie and his brown bag of bone meal
for his rooftop garden.  The guy's on the inside.

There's more than one bitter pot steeping,
but what's brewing inside that place will get you
steamed, and the lemon rind twists won't be
the only thing to make you pucker up.  Their
grinding machine only has one setting, it's
so antiquated, it has a hand crank with a big screw.
The loud screams are enough to curdle cream.

You gotta figure, knuckle sandwiches aren't enough
to move product, you gotta use the whole cow,
the blood is a perfect by-product.  They also
own a butcher shop, best sausages in town
if that's up your alley, just don't go down that
alley, only drips fall for that.  The grounds
won't leave an aroma.  

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