Twas a few weeks before Christmas, when all through the shop, All the roasters were stirring, waiting for first pop, The bags were all empty, the labels printed with care, In hopes that some Panama Geisha soon would be there.

The farmers and pickers were all nestled at origin, With visions of jute bags filled for storage in, Shipping containers stacked on boats in the water, Making their way to lots of eager sons and daughters.

When out of the chaff cyclone there arose such a clatter, I sprung from the grinder to see what was the matter. Away to the sight-glass I flew like a flash, Spilled my coffee and dropped my mug with a crash.

The smoke from the roaster was gathering thick, So I turned on the cooling fan faster than quick. And what to my wondering eyes should I see, But a miniature Diedrich IR-12 and 8 bags of coffee.

Out from behind the machine came a man with a beard. He said, I’m the head roaster, Tony, and this thing is acting all weird. His eyes-how they twinkled! His dimples how merry! His cheeks were like roses, his nose like a cherry!

He spoke not a word, but went straight to his work, greased all the bearings and then turned with a jerk. He’d seen the new coffees and afoot was the game! So he whistled and shouted and called them by name!