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Fresh night air breezes past me, Funneled down though parking garages, Running over brick roadways past the backside of restaurants And through the smoke of every kitchen employee Burning on the back street. The smell of fresh brewed trash hangs faintly in every moment, But goes mostly unacknowledged by all. Thus the wheel turns Cook, clean, run, serve, smile Toff tiny tippers are tools, trickling Down scented cash while mine smells like sweat. Tip for tiny tippers. Tip better.
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Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 8:41 PM UTC
An Ode to Food Service
Fresh night air breezes past me, Funneled down though parking garages, Running over brick roadways past the backside of restaurants And through the smoke of every kitchen employee Burning on the back street. The smell of fresh brewed trash hangs faintly in every moment, But goes mostly unacknowledged by all. Thus the wheel turns Cook, clean, run, serve, smile Toff tiny tippers are tools, trickling Down scented cash while mine smells like sweat. Tip for tiny tippers. Tip better.
Bring it.
adam-disser
Written by
American
Jun 20, 2012
Jun 20, 2012 at 8:41 PM UTC
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