The bill is being added up in the back,
As we speak.
That’s why we don’t see any waiters
Prowling around here any more.
The rustle of bills you’re counting
Makes me think of grass
Being mowed with a scythe in a graveyard
I don’t reckon it’ll be enough.
Dip your finger in what’s left of the red wine
And let me suck on it slowly.
I wish they’d at least clear the plates.
No prices on the menu
Should’ve been a tip-off.
Chitlings in angel gravy,
How did we ever fall for that?
Smooth-talking Mama, it’s your turn
June 10, 1999