From Morden’s streets to Sutton’s lanes,Word of Marlon’s spreads like rains,
Through London’s buzz, the whispers say,“There’s a place in Epsom, not far away.”
A taste of home, a feast so true, With Arroz Caldo’s golden hue, They come from miles, by train and bus,
To find the warmth that beckons us.
From Morden’s flats, where life’s a race, To Sutton’s calm, where time finds space, They hear the call, the savory breeze,Of Marlon’s kitchen, where comfort frees.
Through London’s sprawl, they make their way, To Epsom Downs, where flavors play, In Marlon’s hands, the magic lies,A Filipino feast beneath English skies.
They gather close, from near and far, Chasing the glow of Marlon’s star, In every bowl, a story told,Of journeys made, of warmth retold.
From Morden, Sutton, London’s might,They come for Marlon’s, day or night,For in his food, they find the thread,That ties them back to what’s been said:
“Come taste the joy, come share the light,At Marlon’s table, all feels right.”
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