Clockwork Tea

Grandma swore by senna pods  
once a week, every week--  
without fail  
 
We were all certain  
her evil, straw coloured brew
sipped at the crack of dawn  
from the special purging cup  
with its chipped handle  
would make our hair turn white  
 
It felt like  
swallowing doom  
and no amount of pleading  
could rescue us from our fate  
 
Realisation that worse was to follow  
as we hung on grimly  
before the inevitable charge  
upstairs to the water closet  
only compounded the bitterest  
of miseries when business  
began to rumble below  
 
Nobody ever wanted  
to be last in that queue.