Once upon a time, I worked as a standup comic. This means that I spent more than my fair share of time eating in diners after “closing time.” I wrote this poem back then and recently found it in an old notebook. I’m posting it here for posterity.
It’s three in the morning, the bars are all closed.
I’m with all my friends here at Denny’s.
It’s been a long evening, we’ve hung in there well.
In fact, no one has passed out but Jenny.
And here comes our waitress, hair perfectly coiffed,
a run in her hose, that’s the truth.
She pours us some coffee, slaps down a few menus,
while Tommy barfs in the next booth.
“May I take your order?” our waitress inquires,
while casually scratching her butt.
The couple beside us is kissing with lust.
Do I have to watch all this smut?
My friends place their orders. It’s my turn, you see.
A sparkle appears in my eyes.
I know what I want, I’ve been waiting all night.
I want bacon and eggs and home fries.
Home fries, o’ home fries, a pagan delight.
O’ where did you get your sweet name?
I’m sure that some housewife made you up in a rush,
then went on to seek fortune and fame.
Great hunks o’ taters, fried to a crisp,
Tasty cubes all golden and brown.
Not often in life is one able to find
such a food that turn frowns upside down.
My friends are done eating. They sit back and they belch.
They talk about ordering pie.
Not me, I’m not finished. I’m just getting started.
“Oh, waitress! Bring me more home fries!”
The irony is that I don’t particularly like home fries. I prefer hash browns. But the words “home fries” are funnier. Or so I seemed to think, back then.