My humungous pots of Stew are legendary

My humungous pots of Irish Stew are legendary
Don will suffer many of these through winter


Stew.
I’m making Stew tonight.
A Stew for good appetite.
The pot is full
And its no bull
Its heavy and not light.

I’m making Stew for Tea.
But there’s just Don and me.
Although we eat our fill,
Till we feel ill,
The pot serves twenty-three.

I’m making Stew like Mum’s.
My Stove with pleasure hums.
Although there’s just us two
Don’t know what to do.
I need some very empty tums.

I’m making my Stew from love,
Ingredients from above.
Vegetables from the field,
Goodness from Earth’s yield.
I need more hands on spoons to shove.

In Sydney, NZ, Brisbane and Tewantin
My stewpot  it is a’wantin
The presence of the crew
Who’d love to eat my stew…
Without the threat of Vomitim’.

Then there’s the Adelaide connection
Who’s suburban delection
Might not like the Stew I make
For anything I might bake
Might upset their sensitive digestion.

So in your bitter winter home,
If you’re sitting home alone,
There is a pot of lovely Irish stew,
And plenty here, there is for you
In our Port Macquarie Home.

Middle child…June 16/6/02