The Lay Of The Lost Resturant

The Lay of the Lost Resturant
241

A wagon on a corner of the street:
A swirl of dust, a whiff of frying meat;
A stool that stands unsteady on its foot;

A chophouse, with its oft-repeated stew:
And coffee can we doubt its honest brew?-
Are all that’s left for hungry mo and you,

Ah, woe the day, when fire filled the air
And burned the place of nepery and chair-
The joyous place of printed bill of fare

Where you and I could take our time to dine
And say the chef’s creations were divine
And wash them down with beer or even wine

But now, who in the bread line stands and begs,
Or wanders til! he’s sora in heart and legs
Knows when we’ll see the end of ham and aggs?