Summary:

A poem about that thing where you're so enamoured with someone that you suddenly can't function properly. You're uncharacteristically clumsy and you can't seem to remember what the next step is to something so simple that you've done a thousand times before; like making tea. Because how can you be expected to be normal when the object of your desire is sitting RIGHT THERE? Like THAT? Aziraphale struggles this way at times.