"The tea is good, the coffee ain't;"
Then give 'em 'grounds' for the complaint.
No matter if the pot boils over,
Come what come may, you're still in clover:
Swear you took pains, 'more than a little,'
To please their palates to a tittle.
The march of blame begins to halt,
They pardon beg for finding fault,
And "ne'er again will blame in haste,
But all their mouths were out of taste!"