The Crawfish Boil
By Robin Lee Shelby
The bayou flowed in front of the house
The cow pasture lay behind
And in back of that were the woods
And alongside, the slough
On a Sunday in the early spring
The entire family would gather
To pass the time together
And have a crawfish boil
Mudbugs in those early days
Were not purchased in a store
They had to be harvested by hand
From the nearby slough
So it became an adventure
As well as a feast
The nets were baited and laid out
In wait of the little beasts
The tubs in the pirogues were soon filled
With hundreds of the little critters
Crawling about trying to escape
From the prison they found themselves in
A number 10 tub had been filled with water
Atop a pile of wood set afire
Potatos, corn, salt and other seasonings
Made the brew waiting to come to a boil
When the brew was roiling around
The crawfish were tossed in
And stirred all about
Until they were cooked a bright ruby red
Newspaper covered plywood
Atop four old sawhorses
Was the table on which
The cooked écrevisse
were placed
A huge mound of red
Sat there in wait
For the family
To freely partake
But that was then, a long time ago
Many have long since passed
The family farm is no more
But the memories remain of how it used to be
