Breakfast at ‘Blake’s’
Old antique tables hide old and worn chairs
With overflow seating down overgrown stairs.
With overblown prices for overhyped wears,
A place to be seen in with no scathing stares.
The Pope’s pious poison!
It’s Friday, it’s fish day,
It’s time to fill that chip tray
That time of week
When our physique
Resembles our fat cliche.
So righteous, so pious
(But maybe I’m just bias)
I’m looking old, or so I’m told
But this meal satisfies us!
An order, recorder
The waitress I ignore her
Like pulling teeth
from way beneath
This chaos and disorder
I’ve waited. They’ve made it.
My hunger satiated
With fish and chips
And haughty quips
No more emaciated.
Dec247h 