By the Unusual Head Waiter
I understand
The pride of being polite
To a little child, or one in age,
Or to a stranger in the land.
But when I face these nightly belly-stretchers,
These painted trulls, and fashionable owls,
I wonder how it is they never feel
The inferiority of being served.
The pride of being polite
To a little child, or one in age,
Or to a stranger in the land.
But when I face these nightly belly-stretchers,
These painted trulls, and fashionable owls,
I wonder how it is they never feel
The inferiority of being served.
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