Lynn Veach Sadler
Seven Days of Food

Feed me red beans and rice on Monday
run all through with ham bone open-ended.
Don't make mine a cold collation.
I'll eat me rice three times a day!
On Mardi, melt me with a turtle soup.
I'll take mirliton and moussa any time I must,
if you'll cover ev'rything with sauce piquante.
But a rémoulade makes me much younger!
I'll settle for a daube glacé on Wednesday,
but I'm a boudin man myself:
boudin rouge et rouge,
boudin blanc et blanc.
For I'm a boudin man myself.
I'm a chauvin about chaurice.
Feed me sacalait, that sweet white crappie.
Fill me to my brim with bream.
But it's a boudin man I am:
boudin rouge et rouge,
boudin blanc et blanc.
But it's a boudin man I am.
Make my whiskered toothbrush out of catfish.
Don't carp. Just pamper me with gaspergou.
Don't let my gumbo go stringy!
Give me fromage de tête de cochon
(plain old headcheese with ponce thrown in).
Man me with a backbone stew.
Fill me Thursdays with green-green leaf.
Pour cane syrup on my coush-coush.
On Fridays, deep-fry all my food.
Then on Saturday come grattons.
Sundays, lure me from hell with jambalaya.
Court me with a redfish courtbouillon,
and I'll fall asleep to dream of you—
and you and you and you.
I'll fall asleep to dream of you, Cherie.
And we'll have a-lot-and-a-lot of food!
But it's a boudin man I am:
boudin rouge et rouge,
boudin blanc et blanc.
But it's a boudin man I am.

(This poem was originally written as a song. Click here to listen.)
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