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A Man of Yet a Few More Words - by Swan Morrison

The Candid Waiter (Poem)

‘Waiter,’ I said, ‘I’d like to know
Why is the service here so slow?
I ordered lunch an hour ago.’

‘Indeed,’ he said, ‘it’s a disgrace.
It’s always dreadful in this place.
Of training staff, there is no trace.’

‘Waiter,’ I called, ‘this bread tastes old.
What’s more, the soup is rather cold.
A fly therein I do behold.’

‘It is the best the chef can do.
I’d hide that fly if I were you
Or all the rest will want one too!’

‘Waiter,’ I cried, ‘this meal’s so small,
It’s hard to see the meat at all
- The veg’s infinitesimal.’

‘These gastro pubs are cuisine’s shame.
It’s art, appearance, that’s the game.
You should have dined before you came.’

‘Waiter,’ I screamed, ‘is this bill true,
Or all the debts of the EU?
I can’t believe this much is due.’

‘The punters’ cash we have to gain
Within the brief time they remain.
- They never come back
here again.’

‘Waiter,’ I yelled, leaving the scene,
‘This pub’s the worst I’ve ever seen!
I wish that I had never been!’

‘You and those other punters, too
All think this place is run for
Sod off! -

- What’s this, no tip’s in view.’