The jukebox in the corner played
Songs we bought with quarters laid
In stacks atop shining chrome
Glittering in the silver dome.
Burgers scarfed, shakes sucked down,
We made the little farming town
Burn with life amid fields
Where farmers prayed for wheaty yields.
Our eyes were clear, our faces light,
Muscles in our stomachs tight.
At tables checkered red and white
We satisfied our appetite.
Girls smelled good despite the grease,
Despite the unromantic piece
Of fried fish rotting on the floor,
Despite the grimy bathroom door
With lewd words scrawled in red and black
On golden paint that chipped and cracked,
Despite the soiled hands that served
Bountiful cones with tops that curved.
It was our place to feast and flirt,
The greasy joint on Rolette's skirt.
We plundered there but didn't hurt
Our El Dorado in the dirt.