MAXED ON PARMAS

There it sits upon the plate, A pub-night prince of modest fate, The Parma with a soggy base, A dampened crumb, a softened grace. Its bottom’s lost the will to fight, Soaked through by sauce in crimson blight, That valiant schnitzel, brave and wide, Now slightly swampy on the underside. The crumbing whispers, “I tried my best,” But lacks the crunch that would impress. It needed more—more golden coat, A louder, crispier battle note. Beside it lounges coleslaw pale, An average scoop in mayo veil. Not bad, not bold, just simply there— A garden salad would be fair. With leaves that snap and tomatoes bright, Instead of cabbage dressed in white. But oh—the chips! The chips redeem! Crisp-edged, fluffy-centred dream. They rise like heroes from the plate, Well-seasoned soldiers, truly great. And so this meal, though far from grand, Deserves a mildly clapping hand. Not poor, not great, just safely done— A five-out-of-ten beneath pub sun. A Parma neither cursed nor famed, Just slightly soggy, softly crumbed, With average slaw and stellar fries— A legend only in its tries.