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 harbor
And she’s waiting for the sailors in the jolly boat
See how they approach
With dirty hands and trousers torn
They grapple ’til 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
‘Til 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 thirty dollars
And return her to the harbor 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