THE waiter, deep in dotage,
Now practiceth Sabotage
          With a silver
Of poisonous ingredient
          Insidiously obedient.
Oh, my liver!

I drop my little nickel
In th' slot, and soon a pickle
          And a bun
Are ready to be taken
With a rasher of pig bacon
          Underdone.

I chew the toothsome pickle,
I feel a nasty tickle
          And a wiggle
In my stomach, while the Waiter
Is doctoring my 'tater—
          Hear him giggle.

Soon the whole bunch of eaters,
Poor nauseated skeeters,
          Squirming sick
Groan underneath the table
Alas, this is no fable,
          Just a trick.

Unreasonable spite!
Vile cabalistic rite!
          Diners reel
With doses in the dishes.
The Devil—his tail swishes.
          Hear the squeal.

The Waiter scribbles serious—
His writing is mysterious.
          See the check
I try to fathom, dot it
Quite useless; yes I've got it
          In the neck.

My only poor alternative
Is fight; but I prefer to live
          Half peaceful,
And so (poor me) I pay, while he
The Waiter dopes the toast and tea
          So greaseful.

This often happens, Reader.
Many a hapless feeder
          Chases down
His gullet wond'rous dope.
The Waiter flops his soap
          Through the town.

If correctly you would do,
Starch your backbone, keep the glue
          Off the shelf.
Punky Waiter, rotten Dope,
No more soap; look, get the rope.
          Hang yourself.

Bundle all the Waiters snug
Closely in the County jug,
          Punky Batch!
Lock the door, let none escape.
Don't be troubled with red tape.
Strike a match.

You might think that Heaven—yes,
Might have pity. Nevertheless,
Smoking craters
Open and engulf those dopers.
Fire singes the soft-soapers,
The punk Waiters.

Roasting Waiters, that is well,
Give them all their merry Hell.
          Slap a lash
On those Waiters. Cinch the hobble.
That in future we may gobble
          Harmless hash.

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