Here they come,
A group of four,
And take a seat,
Away from the door.
He rushes with the menu,
They are the first one,
Of the groups that would arrive,
In the hours to come
Glasses he bears
But of distinct types.
With water for them,
Horn rimmed for his sights.
Jokes and cheers
Flying around.
A hand goes wrong,
A tumbling sound.
All they care,
is their clothes aren't wet,
And he is called,
To cleanup the rest.
Cleanup he does,
With a smile on his face,
Of the feeling that questions,
Why he isn't in their place.
Doesn't he have a right
to enjoy his weekends?
Can't he sit and gossip
among his friends?
Can't he make a choice,
Of whatever he likes?
Pizza or pasta,
No worries of the price?
A call is heard,
He rushes off.
Brings in the pizzas and breads,
Steaming hot.
He looks with envy,
on the group of four.
Pizza or pasta,
He's still not sure...