The restaurant where the Dewlaps dwell
is dark and wet as ink,
and softly rings the dining bell
as the dragonburgers stink.

You really tempt your fate, who dare
a drink to order, for
the grinning waiters, be aware,
will noisome liquids pour.

Beside the rotting à la carte
the drooping waitress weeps
and gloomily the dessert tart
in trembling hand she keeps.

The cellars were the Dewlaps sit
are dank and deep and cold.
The drinks down there smell just like shit
and therefore don't get sold.

The waiters' mouths and noses drip;
their feet, as hear you will,
go softly with a squish-flat-flip,
as they come up with the bill.

They peek most slyly; to your dough
their feeling fingers creep,
and they will hiss at you, although
you told them all to keep.

Beyond the Hambone Mountains, a long and lonely road,
the fearsome inn you approach, poor toad,
and through the door of mouldy wood and hanging weed
you go and with disgust you'll see the Dewlaps feed.

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