A Parody of On Fame by John Keats

On Caffeine

How haggard is the man, who cannot keep
Up with his toiling days though still a teen,
Who suffers haunting dreams, day, night not sleep,
And never stops, addicted like a machine;
'Tis as if morning glory through night bloom,
Or the pear tree withered dry from harvest,
As if a camel's thirst over next dune loom,
Should his dim weary eyes oasis suggest:
But to smell full sweet must her petals close,
For once seeds fly does glory wind awake;
And fruitful fallow land on which pear grows,
The refresh'd camel in sand man's desert;
Why then should man, open eyes still un-alert,
Spoil his salvation for a sleepless state?