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 petticoat
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 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 sailors' 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
In 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 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