Letter: ‘Say, what’s that pungent smell?’

A loaf of bread, a jug of wine and lousy service …

Every service monkey knows Mother’s Day is by far the worst, but that Valentine’s Day is clearly second, worse than New Year’s Eve, St. Patrick’s Day or Cinco de Mayo. So here’s a poem for all the service-industry folk out there who have to work on Valentine’s Day, titled:

“Two-Top Swoon” or “St. Valentine’s Day Massacre”
Saint Day of Valentine,
The one day of the year
All two-top lovers dine,
All service monkeys fear,
Young love-lost lovers share
Wrong entree, overcooked,
Entranced, don’t know, don’t care,
Their tables over-booked.
Sometimes, self-centered man
just does not have a clue
That his considered plan
Might interfere with you,
Demands the stage so he
Is Captain of the Ship,
Gets down on bended knee …
Too bad! There goes your tip.
Two languid lovers laugh,
Mock dining protocol,
They jerk around the staff,
And dominate the hall.
Then better half does swoon,
Falls faint upon his plate,
Gallant, he uses spoon
to extricate his date.
Say, what’s that pungent smell?
It permeates the room,
Could that be why she fell,
Knocked out by own perfume?
Big Pharma’s masking spray,
“Eau de Pepe Le Pew?”
No, heard their server say,
“Still served on our menu.”

Pacific Sun
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