Grit

Roodoodle

Summersoups, Some are notSome are gazpacho, Some are hotSome are garden raw, Some are braisingSome made of a fatted calf they were raisingSome are pork bellies, Some beans and cornSome little Jack would be blowing his hornSome are consomme’, Some are bisqueSome are chicken, It’s my personal riskSome are simple Rouxs, You better take stockRoos are tough, We look after the flockSome would suggest bouillon, Bone broth’s in the loopSome ask “is this onomatopoeia?” Don’t bother, it’s not a soup.Pass the cornbread, With a cracklin’ punchWelcome, friends, to Summersoups and Such.

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