Fry Cook At the Greasy Spoon
Bright lights, stoned out waitresses
Burned out cooks work the grill
Bar rush crowd, jukebox loud
Let’s hope they stay in line
You’d never know the dishwasher
Is a drag queen, he buses table butch
The closet case assistant manager
Is as hot for him, as I am for the blonde.
The waitresses move like sports cars
With positraction smoothness
And we call out orders
In old movie slang to break monotony
After thirteen hours here
Winding my way back home
I’ll stop for breakfast and flirting
With the morning girl at George Webbs.
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