A Worker’s Breakfast

I’m not a coffee shop sort of person I admit to you,

If it’s tea or coffee I want I prefer my home brew,

And breakfast, well I eat the same thing every day,

No point going out for Branflakes and yogurt whether sit down or takeaway,

But sometimes I feel the need, call it social pressure what not,

Like when I found myself on Emek Refaim outside a watering spot,

After succeeding in getting a table, not so easy to get a seat,

We were squashed half way up a tree waiting to eat,

A workers breakfast was what the menu said,

And it seemed like the best deal from all I had read,

But could I order such a dish when I no longer worked,

Would it not taste false or deceitful , the thought lurked,

Throwing all caution to the wind, I settled on the labourers feast,

Assuring myself that for the unemployed it was not a pretentious dish at least,

And lo and behold we were presented with the food,

Sardines still in the tin, for authenticity of a workers mood,

A tub of eshel and in case we were not warm enough,

A bowl of hot red peppery stuff,

There was bread, freshly baked and a trendy cheese,

And fried potatoes and onions with eggs if you please,

A cappuccino each and a pitcher of vitamin C,

Enough drink to cause a few visits to the wc,

We could not finish all the food, there was enough for four,

There wasn’t time to eat it all, we would need an hour more,

It dawned on me that what worker had so much time to spare,

Could he really take over an hour for breakfast , could he dare,

And wouldn’t a worker just buy it from a shop or a cheap café,

He would drink Turkish coffee and beer not juice or a latte,

I would have the workers breakfast again, the idea was creative and nice,

But next time I’ll go where the workers go and get the real thing for half the price.

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