I sit quietly in the room, awaiting the meeting,
Hoping to serve my purpose or risk a beating,
The people all enter in their clamorous ways,
Some pausing to stare, others still in a daze,
After a noisy discourse they all take their seat,
Their talking continues, though it never did cease,
Not long thereafter my services are required,
Politely I answer like a pawn to their desire,
Shaken, swirled, and all but hastily thrown,
My destinations random, choices not of my own,
Around the room I spin, my insides distraught,
Never treated with grace like the toy I am not,
I am repeatedly drained, my insides sucked out,
Then it all begins again the moment I shout,
When will this end, have my owners no heart,
How can they use and abuse me, a work of fine art,
Time matters not, sleepless nights or early ‘morn,
To them I’m just a tool, my rest would draw scorn,
Even still I go willingly, for it is my purpose to fill,
I just wish they’d be careful so that I do not spill,
To my task I must go, I’d rather be busy than not,
Such a whirlwind adventure, the life of a teapot.