The Yeung Sing Hotel
There are no young at the Yeung Sing hotel,
only those who grew old, singing for their supper,
or was it breakfast? For night turns to day, turns to night,
waiting to break fast, to break bread, to break owt
of the Yeung Sing Hotel where the hands of the clock stand still
like the ends of the arms of the chef who mans the grill.
Daylight saving seems a concept made in hell
when you’re trapped in the time warp of the Yeung Sing hotel -
and when you’re passing out with hunger it all becomes surreal -
the guests turn into waiters, as they wait upon their meal -
the waiters turn quite weightless without a customary care
they make off with your order, Cheshire cats into thin air.
It’s a brand new Chinese torture, called Russian Roulette,
drip feeding the diners till they suffer from Tourettes.
Time waits for no man but man waits for some time,
singing for his supper, or perchance the chance to dine…
There are no young at the Yeung Sing hotel -
only guests perplexed by the age old Chinese puzzle
of which came first, the chicken or the egg?
Neither in this God forsaken hole!
There’s a hole on my plate where the egg should be,
my hash brown’s cold like my toast and tea -
it’s the year of the rabbit, unless I’m much mistaken,
not the sodding tortoise, so be doing with my bacon!
What happened to my sausage, I daren’t even ask,
nor take this quiet race to task,
I really mustn’t grumble, should thank my lucky stars,
think of those in Africa, no need to go that far -
think of him across the way, who’s looking rather thin,
teeth on edge, eyes rolling, rigor mortis setting in.
They’re out of orange, they’ve no baked beans
Though mushrooms plentiful it seems
I imagine they must grow their own - it’s dim and dark enough
Let’s hope they’re not Shit- akie or we’ll all be feeling rough…
The order of their service leaves much to be desired,
half a table served, the other half fired…
What random factor seals your fate? Makes them serve you last or late?
I only wish they’d been so slow to debit credit cards and blow
my 70 quid on just one night, one rock hard bed, this brunchion shite!
There are no fortune cookies or I’d have eaten them by now,
perhaps I should just pen my own cos the future I sure know -
there’s no confusion in my mind about what Confucius say
If ever again I set foot in here,
that will be the fu- king day…