Restaurants And The Virus Poem by Phil Soar

"Pass the hand gel", my partner said
As we sat at the table with our garlic bread
"Pass me the butter, pass me a knife"
And in between, hand gel was saving my life

The restaurant was open, the food smelt great
I hope that the chef disinfected my plate
My knife and my fork, and my spoon too
No pepper to season, in case you 'Achoo'

We ordered the Lobster, 'Fresh from the sea'
Strange, as the ocean was nowhere near me
And you needed to boil it, and kill it yourself
Which wasn't that good for your own mental health

The waitress was masked and she wore PPE
A snorkel and flippers to dive in the sea
She drove off to get one, and left at half eight
And it took several hours to hand over a plate

As she served us our meal, she developed a cough
And part of her mask broke in two, and fell off
We all sat aghast as she sauntered away
And the chef claimed he'd sauteed potatoes today

He tried to distract us, with a chefs repertoire
As a local paramedic drove her off in a car
Then asked us to leave, but to sanitise first
But we needed something to help us with our thirst

The bar was now closed though, so it was to late
They said we should go home and self isolate
So we wished that we'd stayed home, and maybe had curry
As we'd hand gelled our hands off, and left in a hurry