Aunt Lilia's And Uncle John's Poem by Sidi Mahtrow

There on the main road outside Trinidad
Is a restaurant looking sort of sad,
It's Lilia and John's place
Open for meals at a workman's price.

The parking lot's of dirt and gravel,
With chug-holes to be avoided as you travel
The long distance on the way,
To or from Corsicana.

They serve up a breakfast of grits and butter
Eggs and ham like no other.
The ham's dry-sugar-cured, of a mind.
Not wet and soggy like store-bought kind.

Coffee if you can call it that
Boiled until its mostly black,
Like a cowboy's hard tack
Can be chewed if you like.

And the biscuits are home made
Fresh from the oven, black on the bottom
A bit of lumpy dough half risen
Better fare you'll find in State Prison.

Yet here they are, on the way to the power plant down the road
Stopping for an early morning 'stomach' load.
Pickup trucks, much abused
And cars that have been well used.

Every day they return
As they know the bucks they earn
Will go a bit further at Lilia's place.
- Regardless of the taste.

So this is the place to eat and be
A bit of Henderson county's history.