Sweat a bead, don’t get wet drinking tea.
Oh me, I didn’t know I needed an oven mitt, just to handle this tea.
So hot, my hands want to reject it like a Dikembe Motumbo shot. Steam from brew, so hot, my thoughts perspire like Dick Tracy going after a clue.
Who would knew I’d have to figure out the temperature of boiled water - call me a hot water gum-shoe. Temperature on outside of the mug - hot’s true.
No one uses the teapot any more - pot’s blue.
Bag of leaves captured in porous bag, leaves crushed like a cushion with your ex sittin’ there with her butt…