johnnyvonbondie

there's a place your mother goes when everybody else is sleeping, through the lightsof beacon street and if you listen you can hear her weeping.
she's weeping because 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 tounge from any speaking or screaming.
and they row her out to packets where the sailors' sorry racket calls for maidenhead and she's scarce above gunwales when her clothes fall to a bundle and she's laid in a 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 (in their opinion).
and they tell her not to say a thing to cousin, kindrid, 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".

a cautionary song - the decemberists

jesse