“Oh, Roger's Garage, a haven for weary souls,In South Molton town, where the journey unfolds.A petrol station fair, a place to refuel,With noble hospitality and service, true and real.Like a wellspring of life, it stands tall and strong,A beacon of solace when the road seems long.Its pumps, like loyal sentinels, await the queue,To offer liquid gold, both red and blue.In morning's light, when Phoebus doth arise,The gates of Roger's Garage unveil their prize.The thirsty steeds of metal and might draw near,As drivers seek sustenance, devoid of fear.Within these hallowed grounds, a treasure trove lies,A cornucopia of snacks, to feast one's hungry eyes.From crisps to chocolate, and sandwiches divine,The weary travelers find solace in this shrine.Roger, the valiant keeper of this humble realm,With smile and open heart, he overwhelms.His cheerful words, like verses of Shakespeare's quill,Bring joy and mirth, a balm to hearts that thrill."Fair traveler, what fuel doth your chariot require?Unleaded or diesel, pray, inspire!"With steady hand, he fills the tank with care,Ensuring no drop spills, not even in the air.And as the coins exchange, in gratitude we pay,For Roger's Garage provides much more than just a stay.It offers respite, a momentary escape,From the burdens of the road, where troubles take shape.Oh, Roger's Garage, a haven so dear,In South Molton's embrace, forever held near.May your pumps ever flow, your shelves never wane,A sanctuary of fuel and snacks, a blessing to proclaim.So, fellow travelers, when your journey winds its way,Make haste to Roger's Garage, without delay.For there, amidst the hustle and the toil,You'll find a respite, a slice of heaven's soil.”
Gas Stations
“Oh, Roger's Garage, a haven for weary souls,In South Molton town, where the journey unfolds.A petrol station fair, a place to refuel,With noble hospitality and service, true and real.Like a wellspring of life, it stands tall and strong,A beacon of solace when the road seems long.Its pumps, like loyal sentinels, await the queue,To offer liquid gold, both red and blue.In morning's light, when Phoebus doth arise,The gates of Roger's Garage unveil their prize.The thirsty steeds of metal and might draw near,As drivers seek sustenance, devoid of fear.Within these hallowed grounds, a treasure trove lies,A cornucopia of snacks, to feast one's hungry eyes.From crisps to chocolate, and sandwiches divine,The weary travelers find solace in this shrine.Roger, the valiant keeper of this humble realm,With smile and open heart, he overwhelms.His cheerful words, like verses of Shakespeare's quill,Bring joy and mirth, a balm to hearts that thrill."Fair traveler, what fuel doth your chariot require?Unleaded or diesel, pray, inspire!"With steady hand, he fills the tank with care,Ensuring no drop spills, not even in the air.And as the coins exchange, in gratitude we pay,For Roger's Garage provides much more than just a stay.It offers respite, a momentary escape,From the burdens of the road, where troubles take shape.Oh, Roger's Garage, a haven so dear,In South Molton's embrace, forever held near.May your pumps ever flow, your shelves never wane,A sanctuary of fuel and snacks, a blessing to proclaim.So, fellow travelers, when your journey winds its way,Make haste to Roger's Garage, without delay.For there, amidst the hustle and the toil,You'll find a respite, a slice of heaven's soil.”