Some people say,

"waitresses don't deserve tips,
they've got their wages."
I say let them try the job on a full moon,
on a Saturday night.
Let them deal with a horn-rimmed-customer,
who is seriously contemplating
"this strange chemical on my knife."
His wife orders a NY steak, well done
"don't forget the A1" and fries
and asks why we don't serve ranch dressing.
Let them entertain four businessmen, three from Idaho
who think waitresses are as hot as stews.
I'm never in position when they grab, knowing they tip 9%.
Let them control their laughter
when customers use their bread plates for ashtrays,
and ask for a doggy bag to take an empty lobster tail shell
home to "Junior, who's never seen one of these babies."
Let them solve the problem of consumer oriented
martini drinkers who order it
"straight up."
The few extra swigs
splash on my tray
while I squeeze through the bar.
They feel cheated.
Let them live off of $113.47
every other week.