Sun filled day.
The song of birds flooded the air.
Vivid colours stolen from a French painting panorama pleased my vision,
Freshly roasted Colombian sang like a siren to my nose.
It would be rude to not sit down.

The oak chair cradled me, like a Madonna and her babe.
A pure white angel with golden hair, asked me for my order.
I gave it to her, black coffee and ham on rye.
She floated away, like the vision she was,
But a darkness returned in her place.

In came my order.
Carried by a creature from the darkest jungles of Africa,
A lowly beast no higher in status than my crooked table.
It gave me a gap toothed smile, as it placed my order down.
It was wrong, my order was wrong.

Why was I surprised?
Of course this beast could not comprehend the simple concept of service.
One would assume with its history, service would be ingrained in the blood.
I refused the plate, sent it back, demanded the angel back.
Like a dove from above she returned.

Something was wrong.
She walked straight up, and informed me that she had asked not to serve me.
Was it because she was in cahoots with the black one?
Due to some ancient server code of morality?
No, she just did not want to serve a curry eating terrorist.