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
Copyright © Terry Ireland | Year Posted 2022
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