When Father Carves the Duck

We all look on with anxious eyesWhen Father carves the duckAnd mother almost always sighsWhen Father carves the duckThen all of us prepare to riseAnd hold our bibs before our eyesAnd be prepared for some surpriseWhen Father carves the duck.

He braces up and grabs a forkWhene'er he carves a duckAnd won't allow a soul to talkUntil he's carved the duck.The fork is jabbed into the sidesAcross the breast the knife he slidesWhile every careful person hidesFrom flying chips of duck.

The platter's always sure to slipWhen Father carves a duck.And how it makes the dishes skip!Potatoes fly amuck!The squash and cabbage leap in spaceWe get some gravy in our faceAnd Father mutters Hindu graceWhene'er he carves a duck.

We then have learned to walk aroundthe dining room and pluckFrom off the windowsills and wallsOur share of Father's duckWhile Father growls and blows and jawsAnd swears the knife was full of flawsAnd Mother laughs at him becauseHe couldn't carve a duck.