I hold my breath in the calamitous steam, and smoke

Every pan was burning, and my throat starts to choke

A dumbshow of absolute horror, and wonder

The sous chef called his reckonings, his voice like thunder

And then service was over, the night was finally through

I don’t smoke, but now all my thoughts are in blue

We sat there in the moonlit alley, and no one spoke

They smiled at me silently, ”Just go and make your jokes.”

And in coordinated pantomime they grasped their burning hands

They clumsily mopped while another dropped phantom pans

“Henry, we only do this because we love you!”

“Yeah, sure.” my lack of skill is nothing new

I panic too easily

And my order management is a mess

But, I’ll hone my skills busily

I’ll learn to deal with the stress