The Sport with the Leek (Cock-a-leekie (reprise))

Lyrics

[Intro]

[Verse 1]
I lined up at the Inverness field, September 10th, 1873,
under the canvas tent, peat smoke curling like a question.
John MacDonald, born 1820, stood beside me,
his hands steady on the cast-iron cauldron,
the one with the dent from last year's storm.
He said, the broth must boil as fierce as a Highland storm,
or ye’ve lost afore ye’ve begun.
I pinned a sprig of heather to my bonnet,
watched it wilt near the fire's edge.

[Chorus]
Cock-a-leekie, the sport of speed,
chicken carcass cracking in the heat,
leeks sliced thin with my grandmother's knife,
barley scattering like hurried footsteps.
I stirred with the wooden ladle, handle worn smooth,
pocket watch ticking—eight minutes flat.
Second place, behind MacDonald,
but the steam rose like victory anyway.

[Verse 2]
The cart had brought the prunes from the market,
tied in a burlap sack, bruised but sweet.
I dropped them in at 8:15 AM,
when the judge blew the whistle,
fire licking the cauldron's black belly.
Earthy tang of leeks hitting the broth,
mixing with chicken's rich whisper.
MacDonald won, his soup done at 7:58,
mine simmered to second, a silver spoon prize.
The heather fell in, good luck drowned in bubbles.

[Bridge]
Back on Point Nemo, I tell Reverend Goss,
it's not just soup, it's a race against the boil,
leeks racing the clock, prunes bobbing like buoys.
He insists on the name, every syllable,
cock-a-leekie, no shortcuts.
I came second, but the cauldron remembers.

[Outro]
Second place in the Highland steam,
but first in the telling.