Foreign Feedin’ (2004)

J R 5 October 2024 6 October 2024Bard of Armagh Winning Poems

I had a poem almost done for 2004, but the firm I worked for went out for Christmas Dinner at the end of 2003 – to a Chinese Restauant. I really enjoyed the meal, but the thought struck me as incongruous, and became my best poem to date. They say the best poetry comes from the heart, but this one came from the stomach!

I tells the tale of an elderly farmer, unused to modern eating establishments, and the sad effects of modern culinary diversity on a well maintained Irish Agricultural digestive system. This one always seems to strike a chord with audiences all over the country, especially the vindaloo story, which many of them seem to have experienced!

I never touch the stuff myself, of course…

Bard of Armagh Competition Winner 2004

Now you might say I’m a Country Glipe, and you wudn’t be far wrong,
For I was reared on spuds and tay, and the tay was right and strong!
There was porridge for the breakfast, and soda bread for supper,
And all the spuds that you could eat, with great big lumps of butter!

Now I’ve wheen ‘o’ youngsters, and they’ve all growed up right grand,
But they take me out till places that I just can’t understand.
They’d land round on a Sunday, and lift me and the wife,
And head off till atein’ houses that I’d never seen in my life!

We went till this Italian place, done up in golds and reds,
A big long name with letters that were mostly A’s and Z’s!
The waiter hovered round me, muttering ‘pizza this and that’,
So I pointed a something, and says ‘I’ll try a piece o’ that”

Well, he landed with a plate of stuff, the size of a manhole cover.
It looked just like a pancake that someone had boked over!
Says I, ‘Is this recycled?’, for bejaysus I’d have swore
That it looked as though it had been ate at least the once before!

Well, I tried me best till cut it, but it stuck together like glue,
There was cheese all down my trousers, and tomatoes on my shoe.
I didn’t get the half of it, although I tried me very best,
It was just like sucking chewing gum from out of a string vest!

Then one week we went Chinese, which caused a puzzled frown.
For the menu had wee pictures, and was written up and down!
I pointed at this item that looked like a Christmas tree
And a thingy with it’s leg cocked up, like a wee dog having a pee.

The waiter brought a bowl of stuff that looked like thinnish mud,
With lumps of stuff that floated – I don’t think it was a spud!
He says ‘That there is bird’s nest soup – it is really quite refined’,
Well, it tasted like the bird had flown, but had left a lot behind!

Then we got big bowls of rice, with lovely lumps of pork,
But they gave us a couple of bits o’ sticks, instead of a knife and fork!
I was rummaging about with these, chasing this and that,
But half of it landed down my shirt, and the rest was on the mat!

Then we tried the Mexicans, with peppers green and red,
And things they called tortillas that looked like pirta bread,
They had tacos and burritos, enchiladas and all that,
And stuff that they called chilli, but bejapers, it was HOT!

We had sauerkraut, and schnitzel, risotto and kebabs,
And some of that Italian bread, that looks like concrete slabs.
We tried every bloody restaurant, and every flaming dish,
We even tried that sushi, but it tasted just like fish!

One week we tried an Irish Place, with ‘traditional’ décor !
They’d a bike nailed to the ceiling, and a pishpot by the door!
I looked in vain for spuds and steak, but such food was lacking drama
It was “honey-roast medallions of corn-fed Peruvian llama”!

They had potato wedges – they would NEVER call them chips,
All with multi-coloured salads, and guacamole dips!
It took 4 lines of writing to describe one special dish,
I ate it all, I still don’t know it if was fowl or fish!

Then we tried a new French place, called the ‘A La Carte’
The waiters all looked down their nose, as though you’d let a fart!
They handed me this menu, which was a crying shame,
For the only bit that I could read was the bloody printer’s name!

The writing was all fancy, with long curlicues and stuff,
But there was one word I recognised, amongst all that foreign guff.
L’Escargot was a racehorse, and he was hard to bate,
He might kinda stringy now, but you’d know what’s on yer plate!

Well, it seems that my deduction was somewhat was off the rails.
When the waiter brought my order, sure it was a plate of snails!
Now I says to them ‘That’s bird food, – I’ll not beat about the bush’
What the hell d’yis take me for – d’yis think I’m a bloody thrush?

Well, it turns out that they breed them, on special farms, by heck!
How the hell would you get a grip, when you went to wring their neck!
Now it’s far from me to pass remarks on others’ atein’ habits,
But one thing in their favour – they’d be easier caught than rabbits!

But the final straw was the Indian place, called the Star of Old Bengal,
The waiter’s head was bandaged up – he must have had a fall.
We had this stuff called vindaloo – looked like liquid yellow man,
I dunno where the ‘VIN’ came from, but the ‘LOO’, I understand!

Well, I started for till ate it, and the sweat began to pour.
It was running down the sheugh o’ me arse, and dripping on the floor!
Well, I opened up me collar, and I threw me coat away,
But I was steaming like a dunghill, opened on a frosty day.

We were all back in the motor, heading out for home,
When I noticed things was not quite right, in the nether region zone.
Well, me belt began to tighten, and me face began to frown,
For I could feel things start to loosen, a wee bit lower down!

I was sitting there with buttocks clenched, shouting ‘faster faster’,
For the pressure gauge was in the red, and coming near disaster!
The car had not stopped rolling, when I burst out of the back,
And hit the door like the Drug Squad, raiding a house for ‘crack’

There was buttons flying right and left, as I charged along the hall,
It I’d been a second slower, I’d have pebble-dashed the wall!
The wife came banging on the door, roaring off her head,
But I shouted ‘Jasus, Woman, it’s coming out like thread!’

I’ve been sitting waiting for a break, for over half an hour,
I’ve got a hump across my back like a wee calf with the scour!
You’d need to get me a bloody cork, if you really need to go,
But she says, ‘I’ve used it for myself – I’ve already filled the po!’

Well, I swore an oath upon that bog, as I sat in pain and rage,
To live on spuds and butter, till I died of great old age.
If I should win the lottery, revenge was on my mind,
I’ll buy a place in India, and pay them back in kind.

I’ll open an Armagh restaurant, and feed them spuds and sodas,
And lots of greasy sausages, till tighten up the buggers!
Chronic constipation will follow in my train,
For if they were reared on vindaloo, they’ll never dung again!