He runs the local restaurant,

He dresses debonair.

The meals are hot and staple,

The choice is passing fair.

Only local people eat here,

Only local people know

That when they need a helping hand,

To him, it is, they go.

The radio plays softly,

The tramp comes slowly in,

Is steered towards a corner seat,

Sits down with puzzled grin.

A bowl of soup, a BLT,

"Sit here, now, take your time",

Then George arrives quite speechless

To begin his hour-long mime.

George, just back from vacation

Sits down against the wall.

A sudden throat infection

Means he cannot talk at all!

There's merriment, joviality,

And scribbled notes survive

To be read to all in earshot

'Til the Brewers men arrive.

The Brewers men put in the keg,

For functions on demand.

They spike and plumb and organize

To lend a helping hand.

So afterwards, rewarding them,

Souvalki Pita's bussed,

And George's throat affliction

Is openly discussed.

A glass of wine arrives for me,

Compliments of the house.

But I'm a strict teetotaler

As quiet as a mouse.

The wine's returned with all my thanks

I do not feel bereft

Of pleasure for one's set up

For my neighbour at my left.

So tramp, and ill, and labourer

And me (just marking time)

Are wined and dined and feted

And it doesn't cost a dime.

And there - dead centre - Dynamo!

Orchestrates all of us

With food, drinks, hospitality

And minimum of fuss.

That's why I do I like coming here,

For food, to sit, to rest,

To feel that in his company

I'm with the very best.

I read, I write, I watch, I smile,

I drink and I devour.

I pray the service on my car

Will take another hour!