The World’s Worst Restaurant Names

 
I’ve often reminisced that my Bucket List has been woefully ignored.  
The dream is hazy, I’ve been too lazy to pursue the excitement it stored.  
 
So, I’ve set my sights on culinary delights of the worst restaurants in the world.  
To test my mettle with the cooking kettle without my stomach being hurled.  
 
I’m not dismayed by the signs displayed to advertise their foul confections,  
Though it sounds obscene, I took vaccine to ward off those bad infections.  
 
With roster in hand to scour the land to sample unappetizing beaneries.  
What could it cost? A little time lost?  But I’ll see some beautiful sceneries.  
 
To gain some perspective, my first objective was downtown London on Elm.  
The Butty Boys, provides culinary joys and is renown throughout the realm.  
 
It’s a sandwich bar and you can have a cigar and put down some good English ale.  
If you get past the name, you’ll someday exclaim you survived an extraordinary tale.  
 
After that I was serious and utterly curious, I discovered The Phat Phuc Noodle Bar.  
In my mind was an image of a sexual scrimmage, with a waitress as big as a car.  
 
The name sounded corny, but I was ravenous and horny so I ventured past my shame.  
Eager to please the place was Vietnamese.  Happy Buddha translated to the name.  
 
My appetite was ambitious and the noodles were delicious so I left there totally full.  
Although somewhat disjointed being sexually disappointed I was still horny as a bull.  
 
With that thought in mind I became more resigned with the name of Vagina Tandoori.  
Who cared about food, the name had me glued.  I burst through the door in my glory.  
 
Imagine the surprise, reflected in the eyes of the patrons while eating cuisine.  
For altogether sad I was only half clad and for a restaurant, I was obscene.  
 
I expected some eunuchs decked out in tunics guarding the nubile’s in waiting.  
How could I know, there was no strip show, the name needed better translating.  
 
They were Punjabi warriors calling their lawyers brandishing swords in their hands.  
I was in no mood, to partake in their food, I was occupied in saving my glands.  
   
My elusive quest, turned into a test, to see if I would eat or possibly get laid.  
It being difficult to tell what they were trying to sell by reading the signs they made.  
 
Through a myriad of alleys and pungent galleys I was led to the corners of the earth.  

As you somehow guessed I became obsessed discovering what they were worth.  
 
The chocolate log, appeared in a fog, and I debated, unable to decide.  
By the name of the place you'd stay out of that space but reluctantly I went inside.  
 
They turned out legit and didn't sell shit, but delightful confections they had.
  
I got some dessert, and I didn't get hurt, so all in all, it wasn't too bad.  
 
It took a lot of will power to try The Golden shower,  I figured they pee'd in the food.
  
Perhaps I'd share a bath, at the end of the path, suddenly I was back in the mood.  
 
It turns out the Chinese, just like to tease, as every week some tourist strips down.  
Whipping out their phones when I was down to bare bones, now I'm an internet clown.  
 
Again I was fooled and internationally schooled, It was clear that I didn't know Jack.  
But it’ easy see how far off I could be, when a restaurant's named The Happy Crack.  
 
I'd recovered from the surprise of my demise, of entering the whore house in vain,
  
But alas and alack it seems the Happy Crack, turned out to be serving chow mien.  
 
In a dingy neighborhood, I saw a sign that looked good as I knew orientals can't spell.
  
I figured what luck, with the name of Rong Phuck, I gambled and said “What the hell”.  
 
From lessons learned being embarrassed and burned I know it's better to be cautious.  
I ordered Peeking Duck and I figured with luck, I’d either be happy or nauseous.  
 
I’d been resolved but my appetite dissolved, as they wheeled out a large strangled bird.  
I had learned to say. “My friend will pay.”  I ran out of there screaming the word.  
 
I needed a wagon because mine were draggin’, I needed to get out of the flow.  
So I beat a retreat down a dark side street and ducked into The Hung Far Low.  
 
They started haranguing, when I asked what’s hanging, clearly they didn’t serve fruit.
  
They were even obtuse when I asked’em for juice, but I thought the waitress was cute.  
 
She said “A fellow named Paco, runs The Pink Taco and he’ll take care of your needs.”  
She pointed outdoors and down a couple of stores, “But he’ll take of all your proceeds.”  
 
I remember getting hammered and totally enamored and ended up in the alley outside.  
Not sure if I scored, but I had a lump on my gourd, and my wallet had been for a ride.  
 
Now, I stay in disguise, to be hidden from the eyes, of anyone who might know my face.  
Traveling undercover, on a trail to discover the worst restaurants, to be found anyplace.