Soup fans gape and aim to graze on a river
on potage pots flowing by
in their dreams, taste buds aquiver.
’cause they know it’s so damn tasty,
and that’s why they want that sweet fare. . .
want to feed tout de suite and forage
abjuring a bowl of china.
Yes, some of them may be belchers
with eruptions to deliver.
At least you won’t walk away drenched
as you would be with a ralphed purge.
When they wake and toss the covers,
they will travel to the larder
the ingredients to find.
For they know they will degust soon;
pepper is a perfect topping—so they grind.

Well, Jesus was a baker,
sort of, sitting by the water
of Galilee, hungry flocking
to see miraculous powers.
Then he made a few loaves burgeon,
likewise sturgeon; he fed friends.
But he wasn’t a soup-maker when
he laid the fish upon them—
so while the bread was broken,
no hot steamy bowl was smokin’.
Lore savior was no soup man
but kosher, so no cauldron with hambone.
Then many did travel with him
as he healed the lame and blind.
But those that for soup were lustin’,
all would be left in a loaves and fishes bind.

A soup man grabs a pan,
fills it with fish from the river,
and then he might make it better
with some barley and some flounder.
Some might find that combo funny
or even worse than that barbar-ous,
not found in a cookbook
and with cornstarch thickened, or flour. . .
grab a hero, not this weak feed
from a boat that slipped its mooring.
What it’s really that they love
is a hearty bowl of chowder,
’cause soup fans are all cheerers
for a bowl that sets aquiver
both the taste buds and the mind.
Guess you know: I’m a soup luster. . .
even for one that is overly sea-brined.