Here's how it would go for me.
"What do you want for your last meal, Joe?"
"I'll have a large cuppa coffee and a piece of my mother's Irish bread."
"We'll get in touch with your mom."
"You can't. She died nearly three years ago."
"Well, Joe, you know, if your mother's passed on, you can't have that bread no more."
"You asked me a question. I gave you my answer. And you can't be shooting me or hanging me without my last meal request granted."
"No, no, it's tradition. It's the way it's always been. It would be a violation of some sort as well as a sin. You yourself could be brought up on charges."
"Well, that might be true and it might not....."
"Oh, tis true, tis true and we have what we have, a verbal contract as it were, so go and tell the warden that the whole thing's off."
Off he goes and I take a nap.
A little while he reappears at my cell door.
"The warden says to tell you that you are going to be a bit hungry tomorrow morning when you sit down to have breakfast with your mother."