The restaurants tattle a tale that was time.
The people whom once sat here, stories still remain.
It relays messages from the waitresses and stains,
But only of those who talked publicly of private crime.
Worries are written wholeheartedly wholesome on faces.
Where can bodies truly find any fathom of passing places?
You can say who is cooking now and the temperaments
That follows steam rising at your plate before you.
‘Tis surely sad for such surprising dinner mints
That honestly never tells of better things to do.
Tipping the waitress is greatest value of all.
For some although, think it not a conscious call.
Waiting patiently, they do, for the next ones to walk- in,
She polishes her attitude daily for the talkin’,
Hoping that carrying the orders around, never fall.
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