By Leland Bickford

Sure we all liked baked stuffed chicken,

And the steaks with garnish rare.

Itís hard to beat the old clam chowder,

With the dumplings floating there.


It sets your mouth a drooling,

And your heart it starts to ache,

When you think about the lobsters,

And the good old clam bake.


Potatoes 'N fish, good corned hake,

Fried lumps and conkles Too.

Tongues and sounds make quite a dish,

To mention just a few.


Oh They have so many others,

Favorites both North and South,

But Iíd like to cross the river,

with that coot taste in my mouth.


Once you have tasted fresh fried Herrin',

And the soft smoked bloaters, Too.

Itís hard to think other foods,

Would ever do for you.


There is an art in preparing dishes,

Like the baking of the shad,

Yet you would give your rights in heaven

And most anything you had,

Just to smell the coots a cooking,

On the old black kitchen stove.


And you would give your thanks in heaven,

That you ever choose to rove,

From the land of coots and codfish,

Kellyís Pint and old cross cove.


The incense brewed in heave,

Fit for Kings, Serf or lords,

Not a meal for mere weak mortals,

but an offerin' to the Gods.


The poet from Indiana,

Sang of sausages and souse.

Oh, He sure to goodness never,

Had that coot taste in his mouth.


We have had our share of troubles,

Bust in Business, Death, Drought,

But our faith has never waivered.

Lord, let us cross the river,

with that coot taste in our mouth.

For those that are not familiar what a COOT is, it is a sea duck and a very tasty. 


This composer of this poem was Leland Bickford from Jonesport, Maine I heard people say who knew this gentleman or his family was in the Coast Guard or the Life Saving Service at Jonesport Maine.

Submitted by Donald H. Ward

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