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<div style="background:#fff;border:#bbb dashed 1px;padding:5px"><a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=451918" style="color:#000;text-decoration:none"><div style="margin:10px 0"><strong>The Wail of the Waiter</strong></div><div style="margin:10px 0">All day long, at Scott's or Menzies', I await the gorging crowd,<br>Panting, penned within a pantry, with the blowflies humming loud,<br>There at seven in the morning do I count my daily cash,<br>While the home-returning reveller calls for 'soda and a dash'.<br>And the weary hansom-cabbies set the blinking sqautters down,<br>Who, all night, in savage freedom, have been 'knocking round the town'.<br>Soon the breakfast gong resounding bids the festive meal begin,<br>And, with appetites like demons, come the gentle public in.<br>'Toast and butter!' 'Eggs and coffee!' 'Waiter, mutton cops for four!'<br>'Flatheads!' 'Ham!' 'Beef!' 'Where's the mustard?' 'Steak and onions!' 'Shut the door!'<br>Here sits bandicoot, the broker, eating in a desparate hurry,<br>Scowling at his left-hand neighbour, Cornstalk from the Upper Murray,<br>Who with brandy-nose enpurpled, and with blue lips cracked and dry,<br>In incipient delirium shoves the eggspoon in his eye.<br>'Bloater paste!' 'Some tender steak, sir?' 'Here, confound you, where's my chop?'<br>'Waiter!' 'Yessir!' 'Waiter!' 'Yessir!!' - running till I'm fit to drop.<br>Then at lunch time - fearful crisis! In by shoals the gorgers pour,<br>Gobbling, crunching, swilling, munching - ten times hungrier than before.<br>'Glass of porter!' 'Ale for me, John!' 'Where's my stick?' 'And where's my hat!'<br>'Oxtal soup!' 'I asked for curry!' 'Cold boiled beef, and cut it fat!'<br>'Irish stew!' 'Some pickled cabbage!' 'What, no beans?' 'Bring me some pork!'<br>'Soup, sir?' 'Yes. You grinning idiot, can I eat it with a FORK?'<br>'Take care, waiter!' 'Beg your pardon.' 'Curse you, have you two left legs?'</div><div style="margin:10px 0">'I asked for bread an hour ago, sir!' 'Now then, have you laid those eggs?'<br>'Sherry!' 'No, I called for beer - of all the fools I ever saw!'<br>'Waiter!' 'Yessir!' 'WAITER!!' 'Here, sir!' 'Damme, sir, this steak is RAW!'<br>Thus amid this hideous Babel do I live the livelong day,<br>While my memory is going, and my hair is turing grey.<br>All my soul is slowly melting, all my brain is softening fast,<br>And I know that I'll be taken to the Yarr bend at last.<br>For at night from fitful slumbers I awaken with a start,<br>Murmuring of steak and onions, babbling of apple-tart.<br>While to me the Poet's cloudland a gigantic kitchen seems,<br>And those mislaid table-napkins haunt me even in my dreams<br>Is this right? - Ye sages tell me! - Does a man live but to eat?<br>Is there nothing worth enjoying but one's miserable meat?<br>Is the mightiest task of genius but to swallow buttered beans,<br>And has man but been created to demolish pork and greens?<br>Is there no unfed Hereafter, where the round of chewing stops?<br>Is the atmosphere of heaven clammy with perpetual chops?<br>Do the friends of Mr Naylor sup on spirit-reared cow-heel?<br>Can the great Alexis Soyer really say 'Soyez tranquille?'<br>Or must I bring spirit beefsteak grilled in spirit regions hotter<br>For the spirit delectation of some spiritual squatter?<br>Shall I in a spirit kitchen hear the spirit blowflies humming,<br>Calming spiritual stomachs with a spiritual 'Coming!'?<br>Shall - but this is idle chatter, I have got my work to do.<br>'WAITER!!' 'Yessir.' 'Wake up, stupid! Boiled calves' feet for Number Two!'</div><div style="margin:10px 0"><br /></a><br />poem by <a href="http://en.citatepedia.ro/by.php?a=Marcus+Clarke">Marcus Clarke</a><div class=q>
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<script type="text/javascript" src="//s7.addthis.com/js/300/addthis_widget.js#pubid=citatepedia" async="async"></script><div style="display:inline-block" class="addthis_sharing_toolbox" data-url="http://en.citatepedia.ro/comments.php?id=451918" data-title="The Wail of the Waiter de Marcus Clarke" data-description="All day long, at Scott's or Menzies', I await the gorging crowd,
Panting, penned within a pantry, with the blowflies humming loud,
There at seven in the morning do I count my daily cash,
While the home-returning reveller calls for 'soda and a dash..."></div>
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