The Law of the Waffle House

This is the law of the highway’s glow,

Of the neon beacon where the night-shifters go;

It is written in grease and it’s shouted in steam,

By fry cooks and drifters who live in the dream.

Where the sober are few and the rowdy are loud,

Where the jukebox is king and the smoke forms a cloud;

Where the wait is eternal, the floor may be foul,

And the Law of the Waffle still howls its vow.

When the hour grows mean and your belly is sore,

When all the bars have closed and you can’t take more,

There’s no use pretending, no dainty excuse;

You’re bound for the Waffle, that den of abuse.

It’s sticky and ugly, it stinks like a fight,

But it’s open for business all fucking night.

So answer the call with your wallet and shoes,

For the law of the Waffle is: You don't choose.

Push through the door with your pride cast low,

Where the lights are humming and the fryers blow.

The tables are chipped, the bathroom’s a dare,

And a fistfight’s as common as the salt in the air.

Yet, you’ve come for a purpose, you’ve come for a plate,

And nothing will stop you; not anger, nor hate.

It’s a dive, it’s a pit, it’s a punch in the mouth.

That’s the best greeting you get inside the Waffle House.

Here sit the loners, the wasted, the worn,

The night-shift workers, & the drunks half torn.

Students are laughing, a trucker holds court,

The cook flips an order with casual sport.

It’s chaos in denim, it’s stories in smoke,

It’s the sound of a stranger’s unfunny joke.

There’s no kings or pawns, no lion or mouse,

Just a floor full of equals inside the Waffle House.

The jukebox is screaming, too loud to ignore,

And half of the songs you already abhor.

One’s playing country, the next playing rap,

And the volume knob’s busted; it’s part of the trap.

Complain if you want, but you will not get far.

The cook doesn’t care who the hell you are.

So sip your burnt coffee, swallow your grouse,

Noise is the law of the Waffle House.

Sit at the counter, the best kind of seat,

Where you smell every sizzle and soak in the heat.

The menu’s a jungle, but don’t look lost,

The cook doesn’t wait and he won’t count cost.

Egg orders whispered, hash browns in codes,

A language of grease that the kitchen upholds.

You think you’re deciding, but don’t be a fool.

The grill runs the joint and the grill makes the rules.

"Scattered, smothered, & covered." they say,

Built for the night and the end of the day.

Double it & stack it. There's no shame in excess.

You’ll leave in a fog & a greasy ass mess.

Chili, onions, and cheese by the pound,

This are the tenants of griddle and ground.

Mock them, or slight them, and you’ll get tossed out.

Hash browns are the creed of the Waffle House.

Now comes the omelette, the secret crown of the list,

Not printed in ink, but it sure does exist.

Ask soft, don’t brag, don’t play the buffoon,

The cook might just grant you that midnight boon.

Stacked high with fillings, built heavy and fast,

A monster of breakfast too big to outlast.

Pair it with hash browns, double smothered with cheese,

And you’ll know you’ve bent Waffle House to its knees.

The waitress is iron, she runs the floor,

She’s seen it all twice and a thousand times more.

Her patience is thin but her balance is tight,

She can juggle five orders in the heat of the night.

Be decent. Be quick. Don’t waste her span,

She’ll bring you your food as fast as she can.

Cross her with rudeness, & you’ll eat with a grouse.

Respect is the law in the Waffle House.

Eat like you mean it, don’t think of the cost,

You’ve come for sustenance, you’ve come half-lost.

The bacon is curling, the sausage obscene,

The toast is just barely awake from the lean.

Each bite is a gamble, each sip is a dare,

Though, nothing you’ll find tastes quite like it there.

You may groan tomorrow, you may well regret,

Though, you’ll never forget what the Waffle House set.

Step back outside to the dim-lit dawn,

With grease on your shirt and the hangover gone.

Your stomach’s a warzone, your breath could kill,

However, you carry a story that lingers still.

For once you have sat in that battered booth,

And eaten your fill of its ugly truth,

You are bound, forever, by hunger and drowse.

To the Law eternal: the Waffle House.