There was a coffee shop,
At the hotel where we could drop,
Tired body and money some more.
I learned of Tom Collin’s tall pour.
“A peanut buter sandwich?” I said.
Until I looked at the menu. “I’m dead!”
“Are you sure this is it?” I asked Ura May.
“Six dollars for a peanut butter sandwich?” Oh nay.
“Don’t worry about it, eat and tell them
Back home of you six dollar peanut whim.”
I felt like a glutton,
But on peanut butter not mutton.
That was the year ‘53,
If memory serves me,
I was sixteen at least
When I enjoyed the feast.
