When I was born Ma named me Stuart,
but my da’, he called me Stu.
It were his name, you see.
It were his da’s name too.
Besides the sharing of our name,
we shared a taste in food.
We shared a taste for Bouillabaisse,
we shared a taste for Stew.
Coq au vin, Mechado, or perhaps an Étouffée;
Bourguignon, or Ragout, maybe a Cassoulet
Just say the word I’ll ladle out a
great big bowl for you
Of Chili, Compote, Gumbo,
Feijoada, or Mulligan Stew.
I like mine best when made with Beef;
unless there’s Lamb or Fish.
Often pork or chicken can make it quite a dish.
Now my da’ he’s in the churchyard.
My granda’, he’s there too.
Each New Year’s Day I visit them and this is what I do:
I spend an hour chopping veg-tables,
another dicing meat.
I cook it for at least eight more,
and when it’s fit to eat;
I take it to the graveyard and
I share it with my kin;
Put bowls upon their headstones
and invite them to dig in.
This year I made them Goulash,
last year a Pot-au-feu.
But I know that up in heaven –
they are always eating stew.