Mr Wong's kitchen

The rear door ajar, inside boxes piled high,
light creeps out into this cold night air.
The sound of cooking with rattling pans,
several loud voices, no English among.
Chicken by the box, noodles aplenty,
jar upon jar of spices to be emptied.
A phone never stops it's constant ringing,
a next food order for the shop it's bringing.
Some cars pull up, some cars drive away,
they're bins will be full, the very next day.
Food with names of an oriental persuasion,
eaten by customers and all their relations.
As fast as they can cook these meals,
out of the door those eager customers peel.
Delivery drivers taking food with a slip,
hoping the customer will offer them a tip.
Then everything falls silent,no bloody bitching,
it's the end of another night in Mr Wongs kitchen.