Here is told a story sad,
of arán and im and, of course, ham.
A petrol station is the scene,
and the year is twenty and eighteen.
Ár mbanlaoch is homeward bound,
lena fear chéile and the clann.
It's late and she is well aware
her fridge and cupboards are wholly bare.
A twenty-four-hour service shop
draws our travellers for a stop.
Ham sandwiches are all they need
They are aon ní if not easily pleased.
Na seilfeanna trom le ceapairí:
Sicín tikka and jalfrezi,
egg and turkey and even jam,
but not a trace of a slice of ham.
This máthair then tells her fir
to order at the deli counter.
Alas, what's left is stinky tuna,
there's no-one serving, tá sé dúnta.
Back to the shop with our Midí,
she's hatched a plan, íosfaidh siad.
She buys a pack of unsmoked ham,
butter and a white sliced pan.
Starving now, payment taken,
they all collapse down at a table.
Construction starts to feed the troops,
only to be told they can't use their food:
"No chance, because of health and safety,
no way," the raised voice of the lady.
Agus so they sit there, blanky staring
at the béile they had been preparing.
On this mother, lán le dread
to a kiosk that fills rolls not bread.
As for liamhás, they do not sell it,
so buttered rolls were then requested.
Behind the desk the server swooned
Níor chuala sé riamh rud so rude.
How offensive to be asked for butter,
this customer must be a nutter.
By now the family are way past ocras,
Midí takes five rolls not stuffed up.
Seventeen euro paid that night
for a family dinner of arán bone dry.
And so to end this sorry scéal,
An almost unbelievable tale.
of bia so varied in one venue
that butter and ham is off the menu.
(You would be surprised at how little artistic licence was indulged in here. This poem is very closely based on a true story told to me by Midí Walsh.)
