Waiters Love To Spit In Our Food... Poem by Michael Gale

Violin strings spring to life...
Lonely life-Minus a wife.

Lonely hours and days of practice...
Look out for the mad butcher that hacks and attacks us.

Waiters love to spit in our food...
Always rude and uglier and crude.

It does not help to be mean to the waiter at large...
For he is the true one.. (STILL IN CHARGE) .

Walking down the lane towards the park...
Listen closely to the dog that wildly does bark.

Flowers of nature awaits more showers...
Sunshine gives off to them, the livingest of powers.

Yearnings field for jealous feelings....
Except for angered of dentist's drillings and fillings.

What do i do about the constant throbbing pain? ...
I'll pay the bill, I will, I will.