The Saga Of Harry Becker is a little story about a man I knew. This was a long time ago when I was young. He was a burly man and his wife a gentle woman. I shall tell you their tale as I look fondly back at the memories.
The Saga of Harry Becker
This is a true story
The names and places
Have not been altered
To protect the innocent
When I was a young lad
I had a friend named Harry Becker
A big loud, crude, profane barbarian
An ungentle tyrant on the lose
And he cursed God and man
Harry was one hell of a cook
In his restaurant in Pennsylvania
And he could do no wrong in my eyes
And he threw me a crust of bread
Beautiful
Jewish Rye
With some corned beef betwixt the halves
Proud fare for a hungry lad
And I was ever grateful
The Diner's Loss
His diners elite, would not eat
The ends of the loaves
Nor the trimmings of the meat
But these appeared to me
To be
A princely delight
And every bite
Was from Heaven
Thank you Mr. Becker
The Wife Of Harry Becker
Harry had a wife
And she bore him children
And she worked in the kitchen
Amid the steaming pots
This huge gentle lady
Never raised her voice
And she weighed a ton
And a half—or more
They pleased the customers
And the customers came
Then, they lined the doorway
And stood in the rain
Hungry folks
Waiting for the corned beef
On Rye
And Harry stormed out for a breath of air
And he loudly cursed them in the rain
“You God damn dumb bastards
You should be home
Instead of standing in the rain”
And he stampeded himself
Back into the kitchen
And no one complained
My Mother The Waitress
My mother worked as a waitress in the place
A small woman with a tongue like a rasp
With the sting like an asp’s
And she knew how to hold her ground
She told the Mayor of Beaver Falls Pa.
“You son of a bitch
You sent the food back twice
It’s good—you eat it or
I will dump it on your damn head”
And her tips made her apron pockets sag
And she counted this royal heap
On her country kitchen table
And taught her young-uns
The value of labor
Gifts Of Trimmings
Too many heels of Rye for the dogs to eat
And the rats only nibbled
Big bags were carried home
To her hungry lot
And the trimmings were just fine for me
And no one asked what the price would be
Freshly Baked Jewish rye is handsome fare
And sixty years have not dulled the appetite
And although no siblings now grab
For the same bite
I still find myself
Eating in hasty delight
The Downfall Of Mr. & Mrs. Becker
Harry and his wife ate too much
And they sampled the corned beef on rye
Both got diabetes
And the good Doctor said
“You are in danger
Of losing some legs
If you don’t change your ways”
Mrs. Becker lost a leg
And an arm
And Harry did too
My Visit With Harry Becker
I visited them in the closed restaurant
And look at the warn oil cloth covered tables
Also, the bare wood floor
And I could still hear
The missing customers
I sat and stood
As Harry told me of his pain
He said
“It isn’t polite to show my dirty laundry
But my wife lost and arm and a leg
She sat there
In her wheeled chair
And solemnly shed a tear
Nor smiled nor complained
Although sorely maimed
The place had a stench
An awful odor
And I fidgeted and glance at the floor
And looked at his leg
That was turning black and green
With gangrene
The Final State Of Mr. & Mrs. Becker
The distraught Mr. and Mrs. Becker
Were left for the wrecker
And the undertaker
Had a real heart ache-er
When their souls
Went to the maker
Thank you Mr. and Mrs. Becker
For the fine food and memories
Please talk to God and the Saints
And ask them to spare other folks
The awful agony that befell you
