The Line Cook
"Smile, it's free!" Says the note on the wall
But trussed up in muzzles
And bound for his troubles
The harried cook struggles
To breathe free at all.
Would anyone see him or spare him a glance
As grease, oil, and fire
Together conspire
With time (him to tire)
And break up his dance.
But drink, it sweeps in as a rescuing force
So it seems at beginning
Till one day as he's winning
The world begins spinning
And it's much, much, much worse.
Could he win? No one knows, but there in the end
As guts clench and shiver
And pain, from it's quiver
Shoots dread like a sliver
Through the eyes in his head-
At least if he dies, he won't get out of bed.
