On a snowy day,
when I was fifteen,
my dad held a can of soup.
I walked out the door,
and the snow was drifting,
covering the front porch stoop.
Couldn't go to school,
'cause the roads were closed,
but couldn't feel my nose or nine of my toes,
so my dad said 'gather the troops,
'cause we're goin' to woods,
and we're gonna cook some soup'.
Found my brother and my cousins and a pot and spoon,
got on the walkie talkie with my best friends,
said, 'meet you at the forest soon.'
Gathered our sleds and tied 'em with the rope,
hitched 'em to the snow mobile,
it was really dope.
My dad pulled us to the woods to cook some soup.
Got out the matches, collected some branches,
started a fire like so *blowing air?*
Took out the pot, held it over the fire,
and we filled it with some snow.
Well the snow turned to water,
the water to boil,
it wasn't much of a gamble.
The last thing to do was open the can,
and slowly we added the Campbell's,
and we stirred, stirred, stirred,
and my cousin said 'why are we doin' this?
When we have a stove at home?'
My dad replied, 'Take a look around you,
it's a memory to own.'
And we stirred, stirred, stirred,
and the snow was falling down,
and we stirred, stirred, stirred,
you could hardly hear a sound.
Alphabet soup in the snowy forest,
I spelled out my name,
my brother and my cousins and my dad,
sitting around a tiny flame,
then the fire burned out, and we hopped on our sleds.
A day in the woods, but it was time for bed.
So my dad took us from the woods where we cooked some soup.
And still on occasion, I like to cook soup,
although I use the stove,
and just as I'm stirring,
I think of the forest,
and remember that day in the snow.
