Back in Boys Scouts on particular outings we'd conjure up a dish we called "Hobo Soup". The recipe was simple, every one brought a can of soup without a label indicating it's variety to add to the soup pot. Of course there was always a couple wisecrackers who brought a can of pet food or some other non mentionable, but when added to the pot who would know. In the end it usually was a pretty tasty meal, perhaps because of it's wide variety of ingredients.
Mulligan Stew was fashioned along the same lines. Each hobo in the camp brought in something to add to the stew pot, be it a spud, a carrot, a fish . . . whatever. That single ingredient would have made a pretty thin stew but when added to the whole made a pretty tolerable meal.
We can probably take something from their example. By ourselves life would probably be a pretty boring affair, but when added to a mix of different cultures and ideologies it makes for some interesting experiences. Here then is the poem "Mulligan Stew".
The Mulligan Stew
author unknown
It was a hot summer's day in the jungles
And the sun burnt the sand on the ground;
The Mulligan stew, it was boiling
And it bubbled a most pleasant sound.
We had postponed our breakfast and dinner
In our efforts to get over the road,
And each bo looked hungry and weary
As coucht to his stool like a toad.
Our friend, Checkers Gilbert, was talking,
As he pusht a few sticks on the fire,
Of the days when the road was hard travelin' -
Great Scott! but that guy was some liar!
To begin with, he was a machinist,
A barber, a plumber, and cook,
An agitator poet, and tinner,
And said he had once wrote a book.
He told of the burgs he had discovered
From Maine to the Oregon woods;
He had bummed every guy up in Portland
and made them come across with the goods.
He had bummed the coast clear down to 'Frisco|
And had starred where the bathers all roam,
For he had saved about a dozen from drowning
But had left all the medals at home.
Well he cut up the spuds and the onions
And shoveled them into a stew;
He stirred them around with a paddle,
Then he added a carrot or two.
And then he began on a story
Of days when the railroads were few
And how he had whipt, single-handed,
Three bulls and a manifest crew.
We sat there like humans, half-living
On the stew pot we centered our gaze
And we wished that the cook-up was ready,
For we were all hungry as bears.
But checkers keeps right on talking
Of days when the West was so wild,
And how he had killed a whole wolf- pack
To save the young life of a child.
Now checkers, he was a good fellow,
As far as good fellowship goes,
But he will never again be a hero
Or kill any more of his foes.
He is sleeping at peace in the valley,
O'er his head grow the laurel and fern;
He shall ride no more rattlers or ponies-
For he let that damned Mulligan burn!
above - hobo sign - "Hold Your Tongue"
