I said to George, my eldest son, ‘ Now that your college days are done, ‘ And high opinions you have won ‘ For wisdom and discretion,
‘ The time has come, as I suspect, ‘ When you should ponder and reflect ‘ Upon your future, and select ‘ A calling or profession.’
He answered brightly,‘ Righto, pater! ‘ I'd like to be a British waiter!’ ‘ Come, George,’ I said,‘ do n't be absurd! ‘ I asked what calling you preferred.
‘ The Bar ( although, I've always heard, ‘ The work is something frightful ), ‘ The Church, the Services, the Bench, ‘ Diplomacy — nay, do not blench,
‘ You know how good you are at French — ‘ Is each of them delightful; ‘ I'll come for your decision later.’ Said George,‘ I wish to be a waiter!
‘ Yes, at some cafe let me wait; ‘ For though I stroked my College eight, ‘ The year they won the Ladies’ Plate, ‘ How mean a triumph that is,
‘ Compared with his who daily bears ‘ Whole stacks of Ladies’ Plates downstairs, ‘ Or “bumps” the backs of diners’ chairs, ‘ At Evans's or Gatti's!
‘ A “first” in “Greats” I deem no greater ‘ Than every exploit of the waiter. ‘ When single-handed he controls ‘ Some half-a-dozen finger-bowls,
‘ Than any Fellow of All Souls ‘ More talent he evinces, ‘ And shows why those who feel the charm ‘ Of balancing without alarm
‘ Six soup-plates upon either arm, ‘ At Kettner's, Scott's, or Prince's, ‘ To Judge's wig or Bishop's gaiter ‘ Prefer the napkin of the waiter!’
Cookies on Poetry Cove