Those who choose, to play King and Queen,
by conducts; elect them, not to be seen,
until the time, they take things down,
at the table, and from their crown,
they run around, like headless chickens,
with a handful of scribbled tickets,
in the hope; in heart, plates are right,
to escape a tirade; hot air fight,
their dish is down, something’s missing,
the punter snakes, begin their hissing,
their speech does write, a waiter’s fear,
when serving soup, they bring the tears,
in drunken wake, a pub is war,
as every head becomes so sore,
for arms do fly, when livers toil,
black-eyed barman begins to coil,
then base red mist, goes away,
the paying guest, sees their decay,
to see not an apron, but human being,
what a depressing living scene,
thus, a tip, becomes an apology,
we must improve psychology,
for life; so hard; is what we share,
learn they were there, to give a care.