There are those who dream their lives away
Down at the Greasy Spoon Cafe
Where the tea's like mud the spoon stands up in
And the coffee leads to an early coffin.
Herein, with my nostalgia for smells, I'd
Happily get high on all things fried;
For what's on offer here's rasher than bacon,
There's always some ingredient to egg you on.
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.I would like to translate this poem