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I have the restaurant, too. I serve Southwest, barbecue.

quote by Mickey Gilley
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Gotta Serve Somebody

You may be an ambassador to england or france,
You may like to gamble, you might like to dance,
You may be the heavyweight champion of the world,
You may be a socialite with a long string of pearls
But youre gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed
Youre gonna have to serve somebody,
Well, it may be the devil or it may be the lord
But youre gonna have to serve somebody.
You might be a rock n roll addict prancing on the stage,
You might have drugs at your command, women in a cage,
You may be a business man or some high degree thief,
They may call you doctor or they may call you chief
But youre gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed
Youre gonna have to serve somebody,
Well, it may be the devil or it may be the lord
But youre gonna have to serve somebody.
You may be a state trooper, you might be a young turk,
You may be the head of some big tv network,
You may be rich or poor, you may be blind or lame,
You may be living in another country under another name
But youre gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed
Youre gonna have to serve somebody,
Well, it may be the devil or it may be the lord
But youre gonna have to serve somebody.
You may be a construction worker working on a home,
You may be living in a mansion or you might live in a dome,
You might own guns and you might even own tanks,
You might be somebodys landlord, you might even own banks
But youre gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed
Youre gonna have to serve somebody,
Well, it may be the devil or it may be the lord
But youre gonna have to serve somebody.
You may be a preacher with your spiritual pride,
You may be a city councilman taking bribes on the side,
You may be workin in a barbershop, you may know how to cut hair,
You may be somebodys mistress, may be somebodys heir
But youre gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed
Youre gonna have to serve somebody,
Well, it may be the devil or it may be the lord
But youre gonna have to serve somebody.
Might like to wear cotton, might like to wear silk,
Might like to drink whiskey, might like to drink milk,
You might like to eat caviar, you might like to eat bread,
You may be sleeping on the floor, sleeping in a king-sized bed
But youre gonna have to serve somebody, yes indeed
Youre gonna have to serve somebody,
Well, it may be the devil or it may be the lord
But youre gonna have to serve somebody.
You may call me terry, you may call me timmy,
You may call me bobby, you may call me zimmy,

[...] Read more

song performed by Bob Dylan
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Soboba

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soccer camp fall 2007 dallas tx

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poem by Rwetewrt Erwtwer
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Virginia's Story

Elizabeth Gates-Wooten is my Grand mom.

She was born in Canada with her father and brothers.
They owned a Barber Shoppe.
I don't remember exactly where in Canada.
I believe it was right over the border like Windsor or Toronto.
I never knew exactly where it was.

When she was old enough she got married.

First, she married a man by the name of Frank Gates.
He was from Madagascar.
He fathered my mom and her brother and sister.
The boy's name was Frank Gates, Jr.
Two girls name were Anna and Agnes.

Agnes was my mother.

Frank Gates went crazy after the war
He drank a lot and died
Then grandma Elizabeth married a man by the name of Mr. Wooten.
He had a German name, but I don't think he was German.
She took his last name after they got married.

Then they moved to West Virginia in the United States.

Their son, Frank Gates Jr. Became a delegate in the democratic party.
He use to get into a lot of trouble because he liked to fight.
He was a delegate from the 1940's to 1970's.
He died of gout in the 1970's.

Anna was a maid and cook.

She baked cakes and stuff for people as a side line.
She had a hump on her back (scoliosis) .
She had to walk with a cane.
She could cook good though.
She did this kind of work all of her life, just like her mom, Elizabeth

They were both good cooks

They had a lot of money because they had these skills
Especially when people had parties.
Because they would make all of this food and then they would have left-overs.
We got to eat a lot of stuff we normally wouldn't get because of that.
When they cooked, they didn't use no measuring stuff, they would just use there hand.

My moms name was Agnes Barrie Gates.

She married James Wright and moved to Cleveland.

[...] Read more

poem by Talile Ali
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Tu Vuoi Da Me Qualcosa

Tu vuoi da me qualcosa
Tu vuoi da me qualcosa
Tu vuoi da me qualcosa
Sempre
Tu vuoi da me "che cosa"
Tu vuoi da me "che cosa"
Tu vuoi da me
Cosa ti Serve
Tu vuoi da me qualcosa
Tu vuoi da me qualcosa
Tu vuoi da me qualcosa
Sempre
Tu vuoi da me "che cosa"
Tu vuoi da me "che cosa"
Tu vuoi da me
Cosa ti Serve
Ti serve
ti serve
ti serve
ti serve
ti serve
ti serve
Per esser felici per te
Ci vuole "un perch"
Non ti fidi mai
Non ci credi e lo sai
Vuoi qualcosa di pi
E dici che tu
Pretendi da me
Qualcosa che io
Non s!
Che cosa ?...
Che cosa vuoi?...
Che cosa...hai?....
Che cosa c'?....
Tu vuoi da me qualcosa
Tu vuoi da me qualcosa
Tu vuoi da me qualcosa
Sempre
Tu vuoi da me "che cosa"
Tu vuoi da me "che cosa"
Tu vuoi da me
Cosa ti Serve
Ti serve
ti serve
ti serve
ti serve
ti serve
ti serve
Per esser felice per te

[...] Read more

song performed by Vasco Rossi
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The Court Of Love

With timerous hert and trembling hand of drede,
Of cunning naked, bare of eloquence,
Unto the flour of port in womanhede
I write, as he that non intelligence
Of metres hath, ne floures of sentence;
Sauf that me list my writing to convey,
In that I can to please her hygh nobley.

The blosmes fresshe of Tullius garden soote
Present thaim not, my mater for to borne:
Poemes of Virgil taken here no rote,
Ne crafte of Galfrid may not here sojorne:
Why nam I cunning? O well may I morne,
For lak of science that I can-not write
Unto the princes of my life a-right

No termes digne unto her excellence,
So is she sprong of noble stirpe and high:
A world of honour and of reverence
There is in her, this wil I testifie.
Calliope, thou sister wise and sly,
And thou, Minerva, guyde me with thy grace,
That langage rude my mater not deface.

Thy suger-dropes swete of Elicon
Distill in me, thou gentle Muse, I pray;
And thee, Melpomene, I calle anon,
Of ignoraunce the mist to chace away;
And give me grace so for to write and sey,
That she, my lady, of her worthinesse,
Accepte in gree this litel short tretesse,

That is entitled thus, 'The Court of Love.'
And ye that ben metriciens me excuse,
I you besech, for Venus sake above;
For what I mene in this ye need not muse:
And if so be my lady it refuse
For lak of ornat speche, I wold be wo,
That I presume to her to writen so.

But myn entent and all my besy cure
Is for to write this tretesse, as I can,
Unto my lady, stable, true, and sure,
Feithfull and kind, sith first that she began
Me to accept in service as her man:

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
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The God that i serve

if you want to serve the God that
i serve you gotta be strong
if you want to serve the God that
i serve you gotta be prepared to live
a holy a life becouse my God is so
holy
if you want to serve the God that i
serve you gotta have a strong a faith

becouse with my God everything is
possible
if you want to serve the God that i serve
you gotta be prepared to serve your
spirit not your flesh
if you want to serve the God that i serve
you gotta fear not
becouse he protects us
day and night

he is a God who doesnt
sleep
if you want to serve the God that
i serve you gotta be prepared
to bring all your deasess
becouse he is jehova rhafa
and he can heal all your deasess

he is jehova jaera the lord my
provider
my God is jehova niecey
strong in battles
he is jehova shalom the God
that will get you the peace of mind

poem by Mathilda Maphori
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The Barbecue

When summer evenings are nice and hot,
The thing to do is find a spot,
Where a barbecue can be set up,
So everyone can come and sup,
Relax with a bottle, and sit for a spell,
Which would be really nice and would end the day well,
And enjoy the light hearted, cheerful chatter,
With friends, who to you, truly matter.
Right!
The table's set, the flares are lit,
The music should be a real hit
The friends have arrived, the drink if flowing,
Laughter starts, the barbecue's glowing,
The cooking has started, the aroma's divine,
Everyone is getting along fine,
When!
The barbecue begins to smoke,
The chef, who's coughing begins to choke,
The chops are burnt the spare ribs too,
Everyone's looking very blue,
Conversation has now come to a halt,
What has happened, who's at fault,
There's thick smoke spiralling into the air,
It's now giving everyone a scare,
People are suddenly beginning to panic,
Good heavens, they are going manic,
What can be done, the food is no more,
The wine has been spilt all over the floor,
Everyone is utterly desolated,
For the poor old barbecue has disintegrated,
On top of that, it has started to rain,
It is really driving the guests insane,
The garden's looking a real shambles,
It really is just one of those gambles,
That the weather will go and change her mind,
But it's left such devastation behind.
The hostess takes a deep breath and swallows her pride,
Waves everyone goodbye, takes it all in her stride,
Clears up all the mess, and calls it a day,
But will book another date and just hope and pray,
That the weather forecast might treat them well, so
With friends once again, they can dine alfresco.

poem by Ernestine Northover
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Upon Visiting A Dying Woman In The Hospital At Room 108

actually the barbecue
is more than what it appears to be
its scent of meat
and the hotness of the spice
and delicacy of
the sauce
it is the front of something
that is hidden
there is something behind its shape
and odor
i cannot speak to you about it
so i offer you that
pork barbecue
i know that hunger that
does not want to be fed
time fills that
grief
that cannot be appeased

the barbecue is cold
set aside in one of the corners
of the table
grease is solidified
no one
not one from those who see
the emaciated body
of the dying woman
wants to take
the bite

someone does
but eventually there is that
obstruction in the
throat
and so the tongue
expels that piece
of pork barbecue
again

what a waste!
yet we can never voice
this matter out

the eyes speak a lot
but you know then
they have no voices

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
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Tom Zart's 52 Best Of The Rest America At War Poems

SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF WORLD WAR III

The White House
Washington
Tom Zart's Poems

March 16,2007
Ms. Lillian Cauldwell
President and Chief Executive Officer
Passionate Internet Voices Radio
Ann Arbor Michigan

Dear Lillian:
Number 41 passed on the CDs from Tom Zart. Thank you for thinking of me. I am thankful for your efforts to honor our brave military personnel and their families. America owes these courageous men and women a debt of gratitude, and I am honored to be the commander in chief of the greatest force for freedom in the history of the world.
Best Wishes.

Sincerely,

George W. Bush

SONS AND DAUGHTERS OF WORLD WAR III

Our sons and daughters serve in harm's way
To defend our way of life.
Some are students, some grandparents
Many a husband or wife.

They face great odds without complaint
Gambling life and limb for little pay.
So far away from all they love
Fight our soldiers for whom we pray.

The plotters and planners of America's doom
Pledge to murder and maim all they can.
From early childhood they are taught
To kill is to become a man.

They exploit their young as weapons of choice
Teaching in heaven, virgins will await.
Destroying lives along with their own
To learn of their falsehoods too late.

The fearful cry we must submit
And find a way to soothe them.
Where defenders worry if we stand down
The future for America is grim.

[...] Read more

poem by Tom Zart
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Confessio Amantis. Explicit Liber Tercius

Incipit Liber Quartus

Dicunt accidiam fore nutricem viciorum,
Torpet et in cunctis tarda que lenta bonis:
Que fieri possent hodie transfert piger in cras,
Furatoque prius ostia claudit equo.
Poscenti tardo negat emolumenta Cupido,
Set Venus in celeri ludit amore viri.

Upon the vices to procede
After the cause of mannes dede,
The ferste point of Slowthe I calle
Lachesce, and is the chief of alle,
And hath this propreliche of kinde,
To leven alle thing behinde.
Of that he mihte do now hier
He tarieth al the longe yer,
And everemore he seith, 'Tomorwe';
And so he wol his time borwe,
And wissheth after 'God me sende,'
That whan he weneth have an ende,
Thanne is he ferthest to beginne.
Thus bringth he many a meschief inne
Unwar, til that he be meschieved,
And may noght thanne be relieved.
And riht so nowther mor ne lesse
It stant of love and of lachesce:
Som time he slowtheth in a day
That he nevere after gete mai.
Now, Sone, as of this ilke thing,
If thou have eny knowleching,
That thou to love hast don er this,
Tell on. Mi goode fader, yis.
As of lachesce I am beknowe
That I mai stonde upon his rowe,
As I that am clad of his suite:
For whanne I thoghte mi poursuite
To make, and therto sette a day
To speke unto the swete May,
Lachesce bad abide yit,
And bar on hond it was no wit
Ne time forto speke as tho.
Thus with his tales to and fro
Mi time in tariinge he drowh:
Whan ther was time good ynowh,
He seide, 'An other time is bettre;
Thou schalt mowe senden hire a lettre,
And per cas wryte more plein
Than thou be Mowthe durstest sein.'

[...] Read more

poem by John Gower
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The Young British Soldier

When the 'arf-made recruity goes out to the East
'E acts like a babe an' 'e drinks like a beast,
An' 'e wonders because 'e is frequent deceased
Ere 'e's fit for to serve as a soldier.
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
Serve, serve, serve as a soldier,
So-oldier ~OF~ the Queen!

Now all you recruities what's drafted to-day,
You shut up your rag-box an' 'ark to my lay,
An' I'll sing you a soldier as far as I may:
A soldier what's fit for a soldier.
Fit, fit, fit for a soldier . . .

First mind you steer clear o' the grog-sellers' huts,
For they sell you Fixed Bay'nets that rots out your guts --
Ay, drink that 'ud eat the live steel from your butts --
An' it's bad for the young British soldier.
Bad, bad, bad for the soldier . . .

When the cholera comes -- as it will past a doubt --
Keep out of the wet and don't go on the shout,
For the sickness gets in as the liquor dies out,
An' it crumples the young British soldier.
Crum-, crum-, crumples the soldier . . .

But the worst o' your foes is the sun over'ead:
You ~must~ wear your 'elmet for all that is said:
If 'e finds you uncovered 'e'll knock you down dead,
An' you'll die like a fool of a soldier.
Fool, fool, fool of a soldier . . .

If you're cast for fatigue by a sergeant unkind,
Don't grouse like a woman nor crack on nor blind;
Be handy and civil, and then you will find
That it's beer for the young British soldier.
Beer, beer, beer for the soldier . . .

Now, if you must marry, take care she is old --
A troop-sergeant's widow's the nicest I'm told,
For beauty won't help if your rations is cold,
Nor love ain't enough for a soldier.
'Nough, 'nough, 'nough for a soldier . . .

If the wife should go wrong with a comrade, be loath
To shoot when you catch 'em -- you'll swing, on my oath! --
Make 'im take 'er and keep 'er: that's Hell for them both,
An' you're shut o' the curse of a soldier.
Curse, curse, curse of a soldier . . .

[...] Read more

poem by Rudyard Kipling
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Hudibras: Part 3 - Canto II

THE ARGUMENT

The Saints engage in fierce Contests
About their Carnal interests;
To share their sacrilegious Preys,
According to their Rates of Grace;
Their various Frenzies to reform,
When Cromwel left them in a Storm
Till, in th' Effigy of Rumps, the Rabble
Burns all their Grandees of the Cabal.

THE learned write, an insect breeze
Is but a mungrel prince of bees,
That falls before a storm on cows,
And stings the founders of his house;
From whose corrupted flesh that breed
Of vermin did at first proceed.
So e're the storm of war broke out,
Religion spawn'd a various rout
Of petulant Capricious sects,
The maggots of corrupted texts,
That first run all religion down,
And after ev'ry swarm its own.
For as the Persian Magi once
Upon their mothers got their sons,
That were incapable t' enjoy
That empire any other way;
So PRESBYTER begot the other
Upon the good old Cause, his mother,
Then bore then like the Devil's dam,
Whose son and husband are the same.
And yet no nat'ral tie of blood
Nor int'rest for the common good
Cou'd, when their profits interfer'd,
Get quarter for each other's beard.
For when they thriv'd, they never fadg'd,
But only by the ears engag'd:
Like dogs that snarl about a bone,
And play together when they've none,
As by their truest characters,
Their constant actions, plainly appears.
Rebellion now began, for lack
Of zeal and plunders to grow slack;
The Cause and covenant to lessen,
And Providence to b' out of season:
For now there was no more to purchase
O' th' King's Revenue, and the Churches,
But all divided, shar'd, and gone,
That us'd to urge the Brethren on;
Which forc'd the stubborn'st for the Cause,

[...] Read more

poem by Samuel Butler
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Creep Hymn

The creep
Goes to a restaurant
And order the food to eat at the restaurant
But when the food comes he eats a little bit of the food
Just so he can taste it
And he tells everybody very loud that the food that he order
Taste like shit
And then he takes the plate and throws it on the floor
But he lives the restaurant without pay
The waitress from the restaurant looks everywhere for him in the Restaurant
Sorry waitress he is gone out of the door
And he run away so that you couldn't catch him

poem by Aldo Kraas
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A Neighborly Guy

Baptist churches and brotherhood
In a tired, aging town
A moribund neighborhood
Where faith and fraternity are found

Cleveland Ohio’s a rust belt town
Ordinary citizens, still work out the days
Life comes and goes, has ups and has downs
But some neighbors are different in unusual ways

Take Anthony Sowell, a neighborly guy
A smile bright as the sunrise, none brighter or quicker
Liked to sit on his porch, by and by
Sippin’ from a bottle of King Cobra Malt Liquor

Had a few girlfriends over, seemed a regular guy
Neighbors came over for barbecue at times
Always said “good mornin’ and evening” and “hi’
Scrounged up ol’ metal for nickels and dimes

Neighbors at times notice odd scents
Of dead things or spoiled meat
Seemed to be coming from beyond a fence
Of a sausage maker just down the street

But Anthony sowell, a neighborly guy
Had compliant companions who sat quietly inside
Four on the couch slowly rotting
and three on the floor where they died

A few in the hallway
several upstairs in the bed
One in the bathroom,
on his workbench, a severed head

Anthony Sowell, a neighborly guy
was led in handcuffs through his front gate
Left his neighbors imaginations to fly
As to what was in that barbecue they ate

Anthony seemed such a neighborly guy
Some said they’d forever feel sickened
Some said they’d never eat barbecue again
Some said it tasted a little like chicken

poem by David Whalen
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Head Like A Hole

God money Ill do anything for you.
God money just tell me what you want me to.
God money nail me up against the wall.
God money dont want everything he wants it all.
No you cant take it
No you cant take it
No you cant take that away from me
No you cant take it
No you cant take it
No you cant take that away from me
Head like a hole.
Black as your soul.
Id rather die than give you control.
Head like a hole.
Black as your soul.
Id rather die than give you control.
Bow down before the one you serve.
Youre going to get what you deserve.
Bow down before the one you serve.
Youre going to get what you deserve.
God moneys not looking for the cure.
God moneys not concerned with the sick among the pure.
God money lets go dancing on the backs of the bruised.
God moneys not one to choose
No you cant take it
No you cant take it
No you cant take that away from me
No you cant take it
No you cant take it
No you cant take that away from me
Head like a hole.
Black as your soul.
Id rather die than give you control.
Head like a hole.
Black as your soul.
Id rather die than give you control.
Bow down before the one you serve.
Youre going to get what you deserve.
Bow down before the one you serve.
Youre going to get what you deserve.
Bow down before the one you serve.
Youre going to get what you deserve.
Bow down before the one you serve.
Youre going to get what you deserve.
Head like a hole.
Black as your soul.
Id rather die than give you control.
Head like a hole.
Black as your soul.
Id rather die than give you control.

[...] Read more

song performed by Nine Inch Nails
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Prince Hohenstiel-Schwangau, Saviour of Society

Epigraph

Υδραν φονεύσας, μυρίων τ᾽ ἄλλων πόνων
διῆλθον ἀγέλας . . .
τὸ λοίσθιον δὲ τόνδ᾽ ἔτλην τάλας πόνον,
. . . δῶμα θριγκῶσαι κακοῖς.

I slew the Hydra, and from labour pass'd
To labour — tribes of labours! Till, at last,
Attempting one more labour, in a trice,
Alack, with ills I crowned the edifice.

You have seen better days, dear? So have I —
And worse too, for they brought no such bud-mouth
As yours to lisp "You wish you knew me!" Well,
Wise men, 't is said, have sometimes wished the same,
And wished and had their trouble for their pains.
Suppose my Œdipus should lurk at last
Under a pork-pie hat and crinoline,
And, latish, pounce on Sphynx in Leicester Square?
Or likelier, what if Sphynx in wise old age,
Grown sick of snapping foolish people's heads,
And jealous for her riddle's proper rede, —
Jealous that the good trick which served the turn
Have justice rendered it, nor class one day
With friend Home's stilts and tongs and medium-ware,—
What if the once redoubted Sphynx, I say,
(Because night draws on, and the sands increase,
And desert-whispers grow a prophecy)
Tell all to Corinth of her own accord.
Bright Corinth, not dull Thebes, for Lais' sake,
Who finds me hardly grey, and likes my nose,
And thinks a man of sixty at the prime?
Good! It shall be! Revealment of myself!
But listen, for we must co-operate;
I don't drink tea: permit me the cigar!
First, how to make the matter plain, of course —
What was the law by which I lived. Let 's see:
Ay, we must take one instant of my life
Spent sitting by your side in this neat room:
Watch well the way I use it, and don't laugh!
Here's paper on the table, pen and ink:
Give me the soiled bit — not the pretty rose!
See! having sat an hour, I'm rested now,
Therefore want work: and spy no better work
For eye and hand and mind that guides them both,
During this instant, than to draw my pen
From blot One — thus — up, up to blot Two — thus —
Which I at last reach, thus, and here's my line
Five inches long and tolerably straight:

[...] Read more

poem by Robert Browning (1871)
Added by Veronica Serbanoiu
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Here Foloweth Colyn Blowbols Testament

Whan that Bachus, the myghti lorde,
And Juno eke, both by one accorde,
Hath sette a-broche of myghti wyne a tone,
And after wardys in to the brayn ran
Of Colyn Blobolle, whan he had dronke a tante
Bothe of Teynt and of wyne Alycaunt,
Till he was drounke as any swyne;
And after this, with a mery chere,
He rensyd had many an ale picher,
That he began to loken and to stare,
Like a wode bole or a wilde mare;
So toty was the brayn of his hede,
That he desirid for to go to bede,
And whan he was ones therin laide,
With hym self mervailously he fraide;
He gan to walow and turn up and downe,
And for to tell in conclucioun,
Sore he spwed, and alle vppe he kest
That he had recevyd in his brest,
So that it was grete pité for to here
His lametacionne and his hevy chere.
An hors wold wepe to se the sorow he maide,
His evy countenaunces and his colour fade.
I trow he was infecte certeyn
With the faitour, or the fever lordeyn,
Or with a sekenesse called a knave ateynt;
And anon his herte he gan to faynt,
And after ward their toke hym many a throw
Of good ale bolys that he had i-blowe;
He lokyd furyous as a wyld catt,
And pale of hew like a drowned ratte;
And in his bake their toke hym one so felle,
That after ward folowed a very stynkyng smell,
That for to cast was more vnholsam
Than aurum potab[i]le or aurum pimentum.
And whan his angwyssh some what gan apese,
He recovered of his dronken dessese;
He set hym vppe and sawe their biside
A sad man, in whom is no pride,
Right a discrete confessour, as I trow,
His name was called sir John Doclow;
He had commensed in many a worthier place
Then ever was Padow, or Boleyne de Grace;
Of so grete reverens werre the universities,
That men toke entrie knelyng on their knees;
In suche places his fader for hym had ben,
Whate shuld I tell you? ye wotte where I mene.
And yet in phisike he cowth no skylle at alle,
Whiche men callen baas naturalle;
Good drynke he lovyd better than he did wepit,

[...] Read more

poem by Anonymous Olde English
Added by Poetry Lover
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Pelican Restaurant

Pelican Restaurant is run by Tara Sami who is sweet,
she makes her restaurant cute and upbeat.
A cozy decor that has a quaint beach town feel,
the Pelican Restaurant makes great delicious meals.
For breakfast is the Lamb Keema which has a flavorful taste,
it comes with home fries that taste great.
Have a spinach omelet made by Chef Brian Stone,
tastes hearty like cooked fresh in the kitchen at your home.
Pelican is open 7am to 12 noon, bring a friend or two.
Even open 6 to 10 on Friday nights with Indian plates to satisfy your appetite.
Indian dishes which is out of sight, like the Lentil fritters for price of $7.95,
served with cilantro & jalapeno sauce, making your tastes buds come alive.
Try the slowly roasted marinated cilantro and ginger on the Nihan beef shank.
cooked on the bone with spicy savory curry to make it taste great.
Vegetarian and meat dishes served with yogurt, naan, and basmati rice,
this adds to your dinner to make it extra nice.
Also your dog is welcome, sit with them at a table outside,
you can enjoy your meal with them in the sunshine.
Remember the Pelican restaurant only accepts cash,
it's a great eating experience when visiting on Lake Ave.
Written By Suzae Chevalier on October 13,2011

poem by Christina Sunrise
Added by Poetry Lover
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Eating Alone In A Chinese Restaurant

all my life i never imagine myself eating alone.
there is something detestable i think when a person eats alone.
either he is selfish to have to share a conversation with someone else
or that he is shutting himself away from this world where each must belong
to someone else, lest one can be branded as another scrooge
before Christmas, a misanthrope, a man who has no capacity to relate to
another human being, or even with a pet dog, or cat, to join him eating
in a restaurant.

i have seen some who eat alone in a Chinese restaurant, their eyes fixed on
the other customers eating alone too, sipping the bird's nest soup with the sound of a pig or a big bird, as though eating alone becomes a socially
acceptable action. I do not bother asking them, why they eat alone and look
stupid with their lonely eyes, falling faces, less hair, and protruding teeth.

then i start to eat alone by myself. I look at the passers-by one rainy day
through the glass window of the restaurant. I enjoy the noodles and the
sweet sour pork and the bottomless red tea and the jasmine rice.

i tell you, it did not take that long really to learn to live my life alone.
after you left me.

It is this eating alone in a Chinese restaurant which taught me. And now i am beginning to like it.

Sans love. Sans anybody.

poem by Ric S. Bastasa
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!

Pelican Restaurant

Pelican Restaurant is run by Tara Sami who is sweet,
she makes her restaurant cute and upbeat.
A cozy decor that has a quaint beach town feel,
the Pelican Restaurant makes great delicious meals.
For breakfast is the Lamb Keema which has a flavorful taste,
it comes with home fries that taste great.
Have a spinach omelet made by Chef Brian Stone,
tastes hearty like cooked fresh in the kitchen at your home.
Pelican is open 7am to 12 noon, bring a friend or two.
Even open 6 to 10 on Friday nights with Indian plates to satisfy your appetite.
Indian dishes which is out of sight, like the Lentil fritters for price of $7.95,
served with cilantro & jalapeno sauce, making your tastes buds come alive.
Try the slowly roasted marinated cilantro and ginger on the Nihan beef shank.
cooked on the bone with spicy savory curry to make it taste great.
Vegetarian and meat dishes served with yogurt, naan, and basmati rice,
this adds to your dinner to make it extra nice.
Also your dog is welcome, sit with them at a table outside,
you can enjoy your meal with them in the sunshine.
Remember the Pelican restaurant only accepts cash,
it's a great eating experience when visiting on Lake Ave.
Written By Suzae Chevalier on October 13,2011

poem by Suzae Chevalier
Added by Poetry Lover
Comment! | Vote! | Copy!