Ode to Empty Cups

In the coffeehouses of Istanbul last week Turks sipped their thick coffee with two-fold satisfaction. Word had got around that in Italy, where all the caffe espresso machines have long been cold, Italians were singing under their breath a mournful song. The song:

When in Rome a King held sway,

I drank coffee every day.

An Emperor he became as well,

Still I sniffed the coffee smell.

When he seized Albania's land,

Even that mere smell was banned.

If Benito stays, I know,

Even the coffee pot will go.

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