I know a tavern in the town,

By which I mean a place to eat,

And there I go to sit me down

Alone and in a sheltered seat.

I order coffee, with a roll,

And think the place exactly right

To loaf and to invite my soul

While reading something fairly bright.

What happens then? A carpenter

Erects new doors, or walls, or shelves.

Above his din the manager

And waiters shout among themselves.

The porters come with pails and mops.

The bus boy fills the sugar bowls.

A waiter wipes the table tops.

The cooks are flinging casseroles.

The cashier types the luncheon list.

The counterman makes orange-juice.

O waiters, go away! Desist!

O orange-grinder, call a truce!

O tavern-keeper, hire a hall

And there have all your housework done.

I do not wish to know at all

The way your private life is run.

I will not, sir, intrude today

And hinder every happy task.

So take, oh, take your work away.

Or is that just too much to ask?