O Waffle House, Our Waffle House

I've been to a Waffle House barely more than a handful of times. Maybe because of that, each stands out in my mind as unique and interesting. There was the time I won a stand-up comedy contest (back when I worked up a routine as a hobby/public speaking/writing exercise), beating out a particularly slimy ex who wanted to do it as a career. It also happened to be my birthday. Four rather cute Air Force officers I knew from a favorite dance club took me to Waffle House to celebrate. It was one my most memorable birthdays.

My visits were all in my single days and usually after the bars closed, once with a group of friends, a couple times with guys I'd danced with all night at my favorite karaoke dive before we moved on to the late-night, post-bar delight that is Waffle House. Once I even took my mom there on Christmas Day after returning from a road trip. I remember it as unusual and fun; she recently told me it gave her indigestion. Oh well, we can't all see the glory in the story of being able to say you had Christmas dinner at Waffle House.

My husband recently pointed me to the worst poem ever, which happens to be by and about Waffle House. Inspiration struck, and I had to dash out my own customer's response. It may not be Whitman, but at least it beats out Waffle House's own ditty. I like to keep the bar low.

O Waffle House, Our Waffle House
You mean the world to Us
The customers, the kings
The folk who need no fuss

O Waffle House, Our Waffle House
You always make Our night
At bars we drink, then waffles eat
There often is a fight

O Waffle House, Our Waffle House
Why do you taste so fine?
Why do a few tequilas
always make Us long to dine?

O Waffle House, Our Waffle House
diced hash browns seem no threat
We love them in the hazy night
But morning brings regret