Mr Pepper Pot

Now I’m Yorkshire peasant stock I sup ale instead of drinking wine And I tend to nosh my scranny Not sit down proper and dine There’s a restaurant down our street Not really for the likes of me Attendants to park all cars And it’s a la carte you see; But some times we eat there, For the odd special deals Like two for one offer Or discount on eaten meals. One of the things I like there; And I like it quite a lot Is one of the restaurant staff That I call Mr Pepper Pot. He patrols the place. He’s never ever still, And he carries in his hand A huge wood pepper mill As soon as the food is served He pops up and he’s there Very quietly asking all Some pepper, madam? sir? He knows I am just a peasant One of those really born to serve Knows I’d like to answer no But I just don’t have the nerve; And with a flick of the wrist He’s ground and served the stuff Then standing back proudly Asks has sir, madam got enough? Now the speaking of those words Is really just breath wasted Because he’s up and off before Any meal has been tasted But I suppose its consideration That the restaurant can see Seasoning of food is too importamt To be left to an oaf like me Off he flounces down the room, Such a feeling of release. And I know there’s a chance I can eat my meal in peace. Oh I admire my Mr Pepperpot. For his energy and charm. And he rules that restaurant With skill of wrist and arm. Sometimes in my fantasies Though I don’t fantasise a lot I dream I am in that restaurant; As the New Mr Pepper Pot. ‘cos I’m Yorkshire peasant stock I sup ale instead of drinking wine And I tend to nosh my scranny Not sit down proper and dine