I’m blaming my Uncle Roger for this one...
Camp Food
To the tune of “Bicycle Built For Two”
Camp food, camp food,
The food that makes rats afraid.
I’ll bet tramp food
Would taste more like mom’s homemade.
The hot dogs are boiled for hours,
The milk is so old it sours,
The butter’s lard,
The bread is hard,
And the kitchen is dirty, too.
Someday, someway,
Someone will hear my plea;
Serving camp food
Should be a felony.
I’ll give them my testimony;
I’ll show them the camp’s baloney
As evidence
Of negligence
On the part of the camp’s cook crew.
About 30 years ago (and it still shocks me to realize that I remember stuff that long ago), we found that in an issue of Mad Magazine, not long before we were to go to a church camp. My uncle Roger, who is less than 10 years older than I am, was with us that summer, and we decided that it’d be fun to sing that song at campfire one night. Roger wrote the words down in a notebook he was taking with him. Of course, by the time he’d written it, we’d all sung it through twenty kajillion times, and pretty well had it committed to memory.
As it turned out, the food at camp was pretty good. My mom and several other amazing ladies did a fantastic job of cranking out good food for over a hundred people in a makeshift kitchen in a wilderness campground, and nobody was complaining about it, except for those who didn’t have another notch to let out in their belt! We decided not to sing the song, since it didn’t make sense, and because we realized that we’d have to go to that same kitchen crew for our meals during the rest of the camp!
Roger, however, still had his notebook there, and one time left it at the campfire circle one afternoon. Someone was collecting the items left there and looked through the notebook to try to figure out whose it was. They found Roger’s name, but they also found the words to the song. The next morning at breakfast, Roger got a very special stack of pancakes, with paper from his notebook cooked into them. It never pays to even think about insulting the kitchen crew!
We all had a good laugh, even Roger. I, unfortunately, am still suffering with the words stuck in my head, so I suppose the last laugh is on me.
Camp Food
To the tune of “Bicycle Built For Two”
Camp food, camp food,
The food that makes rats afraid.
I’ll bet tramp food
Would taste more like mom’s homemade.
The hot dogs are boiled for hours,
The milk is so old it sours,
The butter’s lard,
The bread is hard,
And the kitchen is dirty, too.
Someday, someway,
Someone will hear my plea;
Serving camp food
Should be a felony.
I’ll give them my testimony;
I’ll show them the camp’s baloney
As evidence
Of negligence
On the part of the camp’s cook crew.
About 30 years ago (and it still shocks me to realize that I remember stuff that long ago), we found that in an issue of Mad Magazine, not long before we were to go to a church camp. My uncle Roger, who is less than 10 years older than I am, was with us that summer, and we decided that it’d be fun to sing that song at campfire one night. Roger wrote the words down in a notebook he was taking with him. Of course, by the time he’d written it, we’d all sung it through twenty kajillion times, and pretty well had it committed to memory.
As it turned out, the food at camp was pretty good. My mom and several other amazing ladies did a fantastic job of cranking out good food for over a hundred people in a makeshift kitchen in a wilderness campground, and nobody was complaining about it, except for those who didn’t have another notch to let out in their belt! We decided not to sing the song, since it didn’t make sense, and because we realized that we’d have to go to that same kitchen crew for our meals during the rest of the camp!
Roger, however, still had his notebook there, and one time left it at the campfire circle one afternoon. Someone was collecting the items left there and looked through the notebook to try to figure out whose it was. They found Roger’s name, but they also found the words to the song. The next morning at breakfast, Roger got a very special stack of pancakes, with paper from his notebook cooked into them. It never pays to even think about insulting the kitchen crew!
We all had a good laugh, even Roger. I, unfortunately, am still suffering with the words stuck in my head, so I suppose the last laugh is on me.
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