The Wail of the Waiter
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'.
And the weary hansom-cabbies set the blinking sqautters down,
Who, all night, in savage freedom, have been 'knocking round the town'.
Soon the breakfast gong resounding bids the festive meal begin,
And, with appetites like demons, come the gentle public in.
'Toast and butter!' 'Eggs and coffee!' 'Waiter, mutton cops for four!'
'Flatheads!' 'Ham!' 'Beef!' 'Where's the mustard?' 'Steak and onions!' 'Shut the door!'
Here sits bandicoot, the broker, eating in a desparate hurry,
Scowling at his left-hand neighbour, Cornstalk from the Upper Murray,
Who with brandy-nose enpurpled, and with blue lips cracked and dry,
In incipient delirium shoves the eggspoon in his eye.
'Bloater paste!' 'Some tender steak, sir?' 'Here, confound you, where's my chop?'
'Waiter!' 'Yessir!' 'Waiter!' 'Yessir!!' - running till I'm fit to drop.
Then at lunch time - fearful crisis! In by shoals the gorgers pour,
Gobbling, crunching, swilling, munching - ten times hungrier than before.
'Glass of porter!' 'Ale for me, John!' 'Where's my stick?' 'And where's my hat!'
'Oxtal soup!' 'I asked for curry!' 'Cold boiled beef, and cut it fat!'
'Irish stew!' 'Some pickled cabbage!' 'What, no beans?' 'Bring me some pork!'
'Soup, sir?' 'Yes. You grinning idiot, can I eat it with a FORK?'
'Take care, waiter!' 'Beg your pardon.' 'Curse you, have you two left legs?'
'I asked for bread an hour ago, sir!' 'Now then, have you laid those eggs?'
'Sherry!' 'No, I called for beer - of all the fools I ever saw!'
'Waiter!' 'Yessir!' 'WAITER!!' 'Here, sir!' 'Damme, sir, this steak is RAW!'
Thus amid this hideous Babel do I live the livelong day,
While my memory is going, and my hair is turing grey.
All my soul is slowly melting, all my brain is softening fast,
And I know that I'll be taken to the Yarr bend at last.
For at night from fitful slumbers I awaken with a start,
Murmuring of steak and onions, babbling of apple-tart.
While to me the Poet's cloudland a gigantic kitchen seems,
And those mislaid table-napkins haunt me even in my dreams
Is this right? - Ye sages tell me! - Does a man live but to eat?
Is there nothing worth enjoying but one's miserable meat?
Is the mightiest task of genius but to swallow buttered beans,
And has man but been created to demolish pork and greens?
Is there no unfed Hereafter, where the round of chewing stops?
Is the atmosphere of heaven clammy with perpetual chops?
Do the friends of Mr Naylor sup on spirit-reared cow-heel?
Can the great Alexis Soyer really say 'Soyez tranquille?'
Or must I bring spirit beefsteak grilled in spirit regions hotter
For the spirit delectation of some spiritual squatter?
Shall I in a spirit kitchen hear the spirit blowflies humming,
Calming spiritual stomachs with a spiritual 'Coming!'?
Shall - but this is idle chatter, I have got my work to do.
'WAITER!!' 'Yessir.' 'Wake up, stupid! Boiled calves' feet for Number Two!'
poem by Marcus Clarke
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Related quotes
Waiter! Bring Me Water!
He took me to--our favorite spot
A place we go to hang a lot
Something seemed to catch his eye
Oh--oo--oh over my shoulder
Oh--oo--oh over my shoulder
I turned around--to see whats up
A pretty young thing sure enough
She was new--he wanted to
Kno--oo--oh--oh--oo--ow her
Kno--oo--oh--oh--oo--ow her
Oh--yeah--
Then she flicked her hair (yeah!)
Oh--yeah--he began to stare
[chorus:]
Waiter! (waiter) bring me water!
I gotta make him keep his cool
(waiter) bring me water!
Hes acting like a fool
(waiter) bring me water!
Uh, oh, I did my best--to block his view
But it was like he could see through me
I just knew--he wanted to
Ho--oo--oh--oh--oo--oh--old her
Ho--oo--oh--oh--oo--oh--old her
Oh--yeah--i aint gettin nowhere (yeah!)
Oh--yeah--shes still standing there
[repeat chorus]
Theres gotta be a way to cool this clown--
Hes starting to embarrass me
I may even have to hose him down--
Bring me water
I dont know what he finds so distracting--
Whats so hot about her
I really dont like the way hes acting
Bring me water!
Uh, bring it on!
Uhhhh
Oh
Whats so hot about her
Uh, uh, uh,
Yeah, yeah, yeah, yeah
(waiter, bring me water)
Gotta make him keep his cool
(waiter, bring me water)
Send him back to school
(waiter, bring me water)
Hes acting like a fool
(waiter, bring me water)
Waiter, bring me water
song performed by by Shania Twain
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Basic J
Jo the waiter spilling wine
Over some ex-friends of mine
In zero cafe number 9
What you gonna say this time
Basic j, say, are you new here
New ones walking down the stairs
Pretty young thing but no-one cares
Jo the waiter drops the tray
Do you always know your name
Jo the waiter smiled at me
Jo the waiters company
I keep him in a book by my fireside
A drama is my perfect bride
song performed by by Gary Numan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Set On Auto-Pilot
Not only have they been,
Floating along powered by denial.
Their minds have been set on auto-pilot,
For as long as the supplies held out.
Now no one can convince them,
They must swim to shore...
Aided by their own initiative.
For them what had existed,
Is no more!
Many have chosen to ignore this warning.
With a demand for a new menu.
And a replacement of a chef...
That has never existed to prepare a new dish.
They laugh and perceive this to be an absurdity.
'Excuse me? '
And the tides are rushing ever so close,
To toss them all over a cliff.
And this...
They protest with the loudest of voices.
And wish all of this nonsense,
Be stopped by the shutting of lips.
Excuse me?
Waiter?
Waiter?
Did you see him pass us?
As if he did not hear me.
WAITER?
That's it.
He gets from me no tip! '
That is why they pass petitions.
To avoid this 'foolishness'.
'Waiter?
And he's parading around here,
With a lifejacket on.
Waiter?
I'm demanding your presence immediately.
Oh no he didn't! !
Did you see him sush me? '
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Green-Hand Rouseabout
Call this hot? I beg your pardon. Hot!—you don’t know what it means.
(What’s that, waiter? lamb or mutton! Thank you—mine is beef and greens.
Bread and butter while I’m waiting. Milk? Oh, yes—a bucketful.)
I’m just in from west the Darling, ‘picking-up’ and rolling wool.’
Mutton stewed or chops for breakfast, dry and tasteless, boiled in fat;
Bread or brownie, tea or coffee—two hours’ graft in front of that;
Legs of mutton boiled for dinner—mutton greasy-warm for tea—
Mutton curried (gave my order, beef and plenty greens for me.)
Breakfast, curried rice and mutton till your innards sacrifice,
And you sicken at the colour and the smell of curried rice.
All day long with living mutton—bits and belly-wool and fleece;
Blinded by the yoke of wool, and shirt and trousers stiff with grease,
Till you long for sight of verdure, cabbage-plots and water clear,
And you crave for beef and butter as a boozer craves for beer.
Dusty patch in baking mulga—glaring iron hut and shed—
Feel and smell of rain forgotten—water scarce and feed-grass dead.
Hot and suffocating sunrise—all-pervading sheep yard smell—
Stiff and aching green-hand stretches—‘Slushy’ rings the bullock-bell—
Pint of tea and hunk of brownie—sinners string towards the shed—
Great, black, greasy crows round carcass—screen behind of dust-cloud red.
Engine whistles. ‘Go it, tigers!’ and the agony begins,
Picking up for seven devils out of Hades—for my sins;
Picking up for seven devils, seven demons out of Hell!
Sell their souls to get the bell-sheep—half-a-dozen Christs they’d sell!
Day grows hot as where they come from—too damned hot for men or brutes;
Roof of corrugated iron, six-foot-six above the shoots!
Whiz and rattle and vibration, like an endless chain of trams;
Blasphemy of five-and-forty—prickly heat—and stink of rams!
‘Barcoo’ leaves his pen-door open and the sheep come bucking out;
When the rouser goes to pen them, ‘Barcoo’ blasts the rouseabout.
Injury with insult added—trial of our cursing powers—
Cursed and cursing back enough to damn a dozen worlds like ours.
‘Take my combs down to the grinder, will yer?’ ‘Seen my cattle-pup?’
‘There’s a sheep fell down in my shoot—just jump down and pick it up.’
‘Give the office when the boss comes.’ ‘Catch that gory sheep, old man.’
‘Count the sheep in my pen, will yer?’ ‘Fetch my combs back when yer can.’
‘When yer get a chance, old feller, will yer pop down to the hut?
‘Fetch my pipe—the cook’ll show yer—and I’ll let yer have a cut.’
Shearer yells for tar and needle. Ringer’s roaring like a bull:
‘Wool away, you (son of angels). Where the hell’s the (foundling) WOOL!!’
Pound a week and station prices—mustn’t kick against the pricks—
Seven weeks of lurid mateship—ruined soul and four pounds six.
What’s that? waiter? me? stuffed mutton! Look here, waiter, to be brief,
I said beef! you blood-stained villain! Beef—moo-cow—Roast Bullock—BEEF!
poem by Henry Lawson
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Breasts On a Plate
She needed to feel more desirable.
So she placed her breasts on a plate.
She asked our waiter what he thought!
The waiter looked at me and apologized
For not being more prompt with the check!
poem by Lawrence S. Pertillar
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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One Meat Ball
(l. singer-h.zaret)
The little man walked up and down
To find an eating place in town
He read the menu through and through
To see what fifteen cents could do
One meat ball, one meat ball
Well, he could afford but one meat ball
He told the waiter near at hand
A simple dinner he had planned
The guests were startled one and all to hear
That waiter loudly call
One meat ball, one meat ball
Well, this here gent wants one meat ball
Little man felt very bad
One meat ball was all he had
And in his dreams he hears that call
Ya gets no bread with one meat ball
One meat ball, one meat ball
Well, you get no bread with one meat ball
Well, he could afford but one meat ball
One meat ball, one meat ball
All he could afford was one meat ball
One meat ball
song performed by by Ry Cooder
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Constantinople Line
Hey waiter
Im first class
Hey waiter
Where are we now?
Am I last
Am I last
Hey waiter
Dont talk back
These tenants speak
A travellers language
Caucasian talk
Theyre saying nothing
I see a land
As we crawl by night
I see a face
In the window in front
These stations are useful
These stations we love them
Newspaper
Encounter
Confusion
Hey waiter
Im first class
Hey waiter
What state is this?
These reptiles scream
A violent party
All art and jazz
And league of nations
I see a land
As we crawl by night
I see a face
In the window in front
The east is calling
Im feeling nervous
I love the western
Style and change
These stations are useful
These stations we love them
These stations are useful
These stations we love them
Newspaper
Encounter
Confusion
Constantinople
Red
Red star
Red
Constantinople
Red
Red star
Red
Lyrics : j kerr music : simple minds (c) emi publishing ltd reproduced without permission
song performed by by Simple Minds
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Stories
She sits in the corner
Where its reasonably quiet
Drinking coffee with cream
Thinking stories of young love
She calls to the waiter
wont you lend me some time?
You can sit by my side
And Ill let you be friends with mine.
The cafe is old
But the candlelights new
She orders beaujolais wine
And says Ive thought of you too
She whispers isnt it odd
You remind me of songs
That Id rather forget
Like feelings I longed for
You haunt me inside
Sometimes I recall
Question mistakes
Who grew to nothing at all
I hear voices that cry
And one of thems mine
All the things I could say
Are the reasons I cant
She says Ive seen you before
In thoughts I call son
Like an old film with sound
When the link comes undone
The waiter is me
And the woman is you
And we are the story
Just like others I knew
song performed by by Gary Numan
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Well, isn't Bohemia a place where everyone is as good as everyone else - and must not a waiter be a little less than a waiter to be a good Bohemian?
quote by Djuna Barnes
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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I went into a French restaraunt and asked the waiter, 'Have you got frog's legs?' He said, 'Yes,' so I said, 'Well hop into the kitchen and get me a cheese sandwich.'
quote by Tommy Cooper
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Lost in translation
At My favorite Chinese restaurant
The other day, I somehow got to thinking
about ethnicity
I wondered if there were Chinese Jews
So I asked my waiter
Explicitly:
“Do you have Chinese Jews? ”
I innocently asked
my Chinese waiter
“I don’t think so, I really don’t know,
But I’ll ask the manager and
Let you know later”
He returned in a while
And said with a smile
“no…No have Chinese Jews.”
I couldn’t believe it: a bazzillion people
No “Morrys“…“No Sheckys? ”
What astounding news! !
I queried him again
“could you check
Once more my friend? ”
He denied and replied,
“I regret to admit ItAnd don’t want
To offend
But what you ask for
Has us completely
Confused”
“So sorry to say… that for today
We have only: Grape..Orange…Tomato
and Prune Jews.”
poem by David Whalen
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Batterson Dobyns
Did my widow flit about
From Mackinac to Los Angeles,
Resting and bathing and sitting an hour
Or more at the table over soup and meats
And delicate sweets and coffee?
I was cut down in my prime
From overwork and anxiety.
But I thought all along, whatever happens
I've kept my insurance up,
And there's something in the bank,
And a section of land in Manitoba.
But just as I slipped I had a vision
In a last delirium:
I saw myself lying nailed in a box
With a white lawn tie and a boutonnière,
And my wife was sitting by a window
Some place afar overlooking the sea;
She seemed so rested, ruddy and fat,
Although her hair was white.
And she smiled and said to a colored waiter:
"Another slice of roast beef, George.
Here's a nickel for your trouble."
poem by Edgar Lee Masters
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Food Of Love
What would you like for supper,
Some steak, with chips and peas,
Maybe, a nice brewed cuppa,
Or me, with lips that please.
You could have something spicy,
Like a curry or sweet and sour,
But these can be a bit spicy
And not good, at this late hour.
Perhaps a glass of beer, or shandy,
Or a brandy to fill the gap,
But, of course, that might make you randy,
Hey! Have that as your nightcap!
There's me, I'm sweet and slender,
And tender like the steak,
And if you put me in a blender,
A fantastic meal, I'd make.
There's food enough for your pleasure,
So don't say you aren't well fed,
When you start to realise I'm a treasure,
You could have 'hot crumpet' in your bed!
poem by Ernestine Northover
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Doodlin
(h. silver/j. hendricks)
Usin? the phone booth/makin? a few calls
Doodlin? weird things/usin? the booth walls (yeah!)
Got me a big date/waitin? for my chap
A-puttin? his fine on/so he can look dap
I enjoy procrastinatin? cause Im busy while Im waitin?
Doodlin? away/yeah!
Sittin? and dinin? dinner beginin?
Started refinin? usin the linen
Talkin to my man/doodlin? my bit
Waiter got salty/told me to please quit
Told the waiter, dont be dizzy/cause you see Im very busy
Doodlin? away? oh yeah!
Those weird designs
They only show whats goin? on in weirdy minds
cause when you doodle then your noodles flyin? high
Everything rushes by might just be a thought
That you caught while coppin? a wink
Doodlin? takes you beyond what you think
And then you draw what you think, yeah!
Later the waiter/had me arrested
Took me to belleview/where I was tested
Had me a doctor/bought him a noodle
Boy he was handsome/taught him to doodle
Showed him hidden thoughts that linger/find an outlet through your
Finger
Doodle away!/oh yeah yeah!
Doctor was real nice/told me to be cool
Looked at the waiter/called him a real fool (yes he did)
Looked at my baby/told him to feel free
Got him to doodlin? so he could bug me
When he put his arms around me/quite to his surprise he found me
Doodlin? away/yeah
Oh lets doodle baby yeah
A-doodle to the left now
Doodle a little to the right yeah
Alright, doodle to the right, left, right, left
Doodle away! doodlin? takes you beyond what you think...
song performed by by Dusty Springfield
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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The Frim Fram Sauce
(joe ricardel, redd evans)
I dont want french fried potatoes,
Red ripe tomatoes,
Im never satisfied.
I want the frim fram sauce with the ausen fay
With chafafa on the side.
I dont want pork chops and bacon,
That wont awaken
My appetite inside.
I want the frim fram sauce with the ausen fay
With chafafa on the side.
A fella really got to eat
And a fella should eat right.
Five will get you ten
Im gonna feed myself right tonight.
I dont want fish cakes and rye bread,
You heard what I said.
Waiter, please serve mine fried
I want the frim fram sauce with the ausen fay
With chafafa on the side.
~interlude~
A fella really got to eat
And a fella should eat right.
Five will get you ten
Im gonna feed myself right tonight.
I dont want fish cakes and rye bread,
You heard what I said.
Waiter, please serve mine fried
I want the frim fram sauce with the ausen fay
With chafafa on the side.
(now if you dont have it, just bring me a check for the water!)
song performed by by Nat King Cole
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Frim Fram Sauce
I dont want french fried potatoes,
Red ripe tomatoes,
Im never satisfied.
I want the frim fram sauce with the ausen fay
With chafafa on the side.
I dont want pork chops and bacon,
That wont awaken
My appetite inside.
I want the frim fram sauce with the ausen fay
With chafafa on the side.
A fella really got to eat
And a fella should eat right.
Five will get you ten
Im gonna feed myself right tonight.
I dont want fish cakes and rye bread,
You heard what I said.
Waiter, please serve mine fried
I want the frim fram sauce with the ausen fay
With chafafa on the side.
~interlude~
A fella really got to eat
And a fella should eat right.
Five will get you ten
Im gonna feed myself right tonight.
I dont want fish cakes and rye bread,
You heard what I said.
Waiter, please serve mine fried
I want the frim fram sauce with the ausen fay
With chafafa on the side.
(now if you dont have it, just bring me a check for the water!)
song performed by by Nat King Cole
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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Coltrane
Wakin' up at nine
Looks at his paper
Can't deal with what he sees
All the troubled lives
The talk of the ages
He's crawling back to bed
Don't take a walk outside
Don't make any new friends
He's crawling back to bed
You'd better convince me man
'Cause I, I don't know what I'm doing
You'd better convince me man
'Cause I, I don't know who I'm screwing
You'd better convince me man
'Cause I, I don't know what I'm doing
You'd better convince me man
'Cause I, I don't know who I'm screwing
Callin' all his friends
He's known 'em for ages
Can't deal with what they say
Connective alibis
Cold and contagious
He's crawling back to bed
So cut off the phone lines
Stock up on water
He's crawling back to bed
You'd better convince me man
'Cause I, I don't know what I'm doing
You'd better convince me man
'Cause I, I don't know who I'm screwing
You'd better convince me man
'Cause I, I don't know what I'm doing
You'd better convince me man
'Cause I, I don't know who I'm screwing
You'd better convince me man
'Cause I, I don't know what I'm doing
You'd better convince me man
'Cause I, I don't know who I'm screwing
You'd better convince me man
'Cause I, I don't know what I'm doing
You'd better convince me man
'Cause I, I don't know who I'm screwing
You'd better convince me man
Yessir
You'd better convince me man
Yessir
You'd better convince me man
Yessir
You'd better convince me man
Yessir
song performed by by Gomez
Submitted by Lucian Velea
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5. Rotten Perks
A porkpie and a pickled egg
Left in a buffet car
The porkpie was in plastic wrap
Whilst egg was in a jar
They’d travelled down from London
Today they’d been in York
The egg had drank its vinegar
And pie was lacking pork
Egg nearly sold last Monday
But a diner said it stunk
The waiter threw it back in jar
Where it got a little drunk
Porkpie sat in sunshine
Soaked up the nice hot rays
As furry green things ate his crust
For more than last ten days
Until at last the driver said
Send snack for that’s my perk
He ate the pie and pickled egg
Then took ten weeks off work
poem by David Threadgold (2008)
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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Ballade 2
In Antwerp, Bruges, Ostend and Ghent
I used to order food with flair,
But in every inn to which I went
They always brought me, with my fare,
With every roast and mutton dish,
With boar, with rabbit, pigeon, bustard,
With fresh and with salt-water fish,
Always, never asking, mustard.
I ordered herring, said I'd like
Carp for supper at the bar,
And called for simple boiled pike,
And two large sole, when I ate at Spa.
I ordered green sauce when in Brussels;
The waiter stared and looked disgusted;
The bus boy brought in with my mussels
As always, never asking, mustard.
I couldn't eat or drink without it.
They add it to the water they
Boil the fish in and-don't doubt it-
The drippings from the roast each day
Are tossed into a mustard vat
In which they're mixed, and then entrusted
To those who bring-they're trained at that-
Always, never asking, mustard.
Prince, it's clear a spice like clove
can drop its guard. It won't be busted.
There's just one thing these people serve:
Always, never asking, mustard.
poem by Eustache Deschamps
Submitted by Poetry Lover
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The Catch
You take me to the restaurant where one
plays God over a fish tank. The fat trout
pace their green cage, waiting to be taken
out of an element. Who knows what they know?
There are thirteen in a tank meant
for goldfish. I don¹t care which one I eat.
But the waiter expects a performance,
con brio. This is a ritual
solemn as wine-tasting or the Last Judgement.
Eating is never so simple as hunger.
Between the appetite and its satisfaction
falls the net, groping blindly in dark water.
The fish startle and thrash. You make your catch,
flourishing a bit for the waiter
so as not to be thought a peasant. You force
air into the trout's gills as if he were Adam,
and send him squirming toward the kitchen
to be born. Then it's my turn. I surprise
myself with my dexterity, almost
enjoying the game. A liter of wine
later, the fish return, foppishly dressed
in mushrooms and pimentos, their eyes
dreamily hazed. Darling, I am drunk. I watch you pluck
the trout's ribs out of your perfect teeth.
poem by Erica Jong
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