Tea Party is a thinking poem, a description of how we sometimes choose to entertain or not to entertain certain thoughts.

Tea Party

I like entertaining, serving up sweet tea and sticky buns. 
For all that, I'm fussy about the company I keep.
 
Mrs Thunder, I shower with custard creams and sugary brews, 
I'd hang on her every syllable all day.
 
Mr Dawn doesn't get the time of day,
I wouldn't throw him a glass of bitter lemon.
 
Mr Lightning, oh, I serve him the works, 
scrumptious cake, heavy cream, ornate flowers to the side, 
Egyptian cotton napkins to wipe his silken skin, and espresso. 
 
Mrs Warm Breeze doesn't get a toe in the door, 
I won't feed her jam ambrosia or quench her thirst 
with lime lemonade. 
 
Mrs Rain, I've had stay over /over and again. 
We drowned in a sea of birch beer last week.
 
Mr Tornado, I spoil with eggnog which makes him dizzier but, 
not to worry, the moist muffin I bake, is great for soakage. 
 
Ms Twister, I adore, in fact, I have her gobble up kaiser roll 
and gulp up a couple of cocktails. 
 
Mr Sunshine, God bless, pleads for entry every day.
For him, I've no crumbs or leftovers, not even spilt milk.
 
The thing is, you see, I can't squander my booze and bagels 
on clowns or wannabes.