Gourmet Grub By The Campfire’s Glow
Poor Jean left his home in his chapeau to roam,
for a lover had left him forlorn;
telling amorous tales, sometimes sleeping in jails
when somebody complained they were porn.
Jean learned how to cook from a gourmet cookbook
in the Legion where he’d sought escape,
but the guns’ roar and gore he soon came to deplore—
he ran off once he’d learned to cook crepe.
Chorus:
Jean, fils of Valjean,
snuck away from the guards before dawn,
for the money he’d earned and the lessons he’d learned
were worth less than the cap he put on.
Jean grew quite rotund, XXXL aproned,
for he tested each morsel he made,
so he couldn’t run far and soon stopped at a bar
for sham-pon-ya and pink lemonade.
That’s where Jean was caught by the MP’s who thought
that his neck should be stretched like a goose,
but he poisoned the lot when he cooked up a pot
of bœuf bourguignon, then he cut loose.
Chorus:
Jean waddled away
in the hopes he might live one more day,
wondering where he would go for, he soon came to know
that from now on he’d live as a stray.
Jean first would embark on a steamer at dark
heading off to the U.S. of A.,
but the furnace’s toll as he shoveled the coal
burned him worse than Sahara’s mid-day.
So Jean hired on with a cruise ship at dawn,
sore afraid he could not camouflage
the great worth of his girth, but his mirth won a berth
as a cook for a rich entourage.
He was seasick all day for two weeks in mid-May
as they passed through a Nor’eastern gale.
Though the galley was fine, he could not cook or dine
with his head stuck inside of a pail.
Chorus:
Jean, seafaring lad,
knew that some things he’d done were quite bad.
He repented each day while his shins banged away
at the bucket with which he was clad.
On arrival, in fear Legionnaires would appear
and return him to his native land,
he would head way out west in boots, chapeau, and vest,
for he heard cooks were in great demand.
Passing through the Blue Ridge on a route without bridge,
in a valley a grizzly approached.
’Twas the first Jean had seen, and it looked very mean,
but he thought it might taste good if poached.
A woodsman took care, but he shot its derriere
which annoyed it beyond every pale,
yet the bear had discerned from a lesson once learned
to avoid men who passed through his vale.
Chorus:
Jean, Jean Lescargot,
told a tale of a snail that could grow
which he showed on a coach, causing sternest reproach—
he was banned for life by Wells Fargo.
For a month in St. Lou, he would meet quite a few
other cooks who were grizzled and gruff.
They had all cooked on trails where rough eating prevails,
but Jean never thought beans were enough.
At last Jean eloped with a mixed swarm who hoped
that their wagon train wouldn’t go bust.
He was paid room and board as a cook for the horde;
his chuckwagon, out front, got less dust.
Chorus:
Jean, Chuckwagon Jean,
loved the ladies, but kept his boots on,
because he saved a buck with each dollar he’d tuck
in his boots—if he wore them till dawn.
At first it was rough, but he learned lots of stuff
about meals-on-wheels cooking out west.
Though they cared for their steer, a cook wasn’t held dear
til his spam and his beans passed the test.
Every Indian who got to know him soon knew
they were welcome to share his repast,
although none dared be rude while devouring his food,
for his temper could not be surpassed.
Chorus:
Jean cooked on the range;
his companion, a dog with the mange,
but he wasn’t unnerved when he finally served
chen hors d’oeuvre finger food for a change.
Jean didn’t think beans were the traveler’s best means
to survive on such rigorous trips,
so he Frenched-up his stew and the séchée beef, too,
which he served with fromagey wine dips.
Every accent and tongue of those he was among
meant his menu took planning with care.
Like the Dutch, Turks, and Swedes, every group had its needs,
but they soon learned to eat what was there.
Chorus:
Jean’s Duck a l’Orange,
by a campfire’s glow may sound strawnge,
but seldom was heard a disparaging word,
for he cooked the best grub you could mawnge.
They listened in awe though his accent’s odd flaw
ruffled ears that were muffled by dust;
on the trails his regales were astonishing tales
of romance and adventure and lust.
All the stories he knew were quite bawdy but few
could believe any exploits he claimed.
“A great legend in love, I was sent from above …”
his Decameron sermons were famed.
Chorus:
Jean, teller of tales
of ribald and promiscuous frails.
He could sing a fine tune of adventures in June
and the naughtiness of life’s travails.
Jean aged on the trail: his health started to fail—
great circumference the bane of his call.
Though his bacon was cured, yet his heartache endured
from his need to be loved by them all.
Every lad and each lass chose to give him a pass—
the great chef always failed as a flirt.
Jean was buried out west with his hands ’crost his chest,
in his boots and chapeau, vest and skirt.
Final Chorus:
Jean, bawdy old Jean,
didn’t leave behind hide, hair, or spawn,
but the stories he told, far more precious than gold,
are still legend long since he’s been gone.