Room at the inn off
Fruitville Pike
The snowed-over road
An iron spike
I have a friend
Worth talking to
He is the owner there
And the porter too
He is the spirit of the place
And he is in the kind barmaid's face
The backbone
Of the establishment
Maybe even why this town exists
And perhaps the world itself is spread
Just for this table here and this dinner bread
He is the cook
And the butcher block
He's the closer too watching the clock
This place was really built to last
But I've heard even earth
Melts like candlewax
When it goes, we'll be fine
Fire turns to fire
All that it finds
Ours is to stay within these doors
And find our names carved in the boards
How did we find this place at all?
This now familiar hole in the wall?
I'll ask the lady who's everyone's trusted
Confidant
Our Resident Mom
She raised the one I mentioned first
The one who owns this place he serves
She gets through to him, or so I've heard
They go way back, when they catered
A wedding that kicked off this work
Then he bought this space he restored
The aesthetics boast a bit of everything
Baroque and grunge, folksy Byzantine
And here you'll find every type
Even those with no appetite
But the special's on, the tree is trimmed
A knowing look, we know this hymn
It's been since spring when we last sang
But without fail dinner bells rang
This place was really built to last
But even earth
Melts like candlewax
When it goes, we'll be fine
Fire turns to fire
All that it finds