At every Georgia off-ramp
Waffle House branded the sign,
Promising dimly lit lamps
And shredded strips of swine.

We refused to drop anchor there,
We only drank Starbucks.
But for many hours it was rare,
Only travelers in cars and trucks.

With exhales, we refused to go,
The coffee tasted like muck.
Despite agony, despite woe
Both feared being a shmuck.

Four days we cried for beloved espresso
So we continued the endless manifesto.