There's a place your mother goes
When everybody else is soundly sleeping
Through the lights of beacon street
And if you listen, you can hear her weeping
She's weeping, 'cause the gentlemen are calling
And the snow is softly falling on her petticoats
And she's standing in the harbour
And she's waiting for the sailors in the jolly boat
See how they approach
With dirty hands and trousers torn they grapple
Till she's safe within their keeping
A gag is placed between her lips
To keep her sorry tongue from any speaking
Or screaming and they row her out to packets where
The sailor's sorry racket calls for maidenhead
And she's scarce above the gunwales
When her clothes fall to a bundle
And she's laid in bed on the upper deck
And so she goes from ship to ship
Her ankles clasped, her arms so rudely pinioned
Till at last she's satisfied the lot of the
Marina's teeming minions and their opinions
And they tell her not to say a thing to cousin
Kindred, kith or kin or she'll end up dead
And they throw her dirty dollars
And return her to the habor where she goes to bed
And this is how you're fed
So be kind to your mother, though she may seem
An awful bother and the next time she tries to feed you
Collard greens, remember what she does when you're asleep