May your stuffing be tasty.
May your turkey be plump.
May your potatoes and gravy have not a lump.
May your yams be delicious and your pies take the prize,
And may your Thanksgiving dinner stay off your thighs!
What’s the matter with you - ain’t I always been your friend?
Ain’t I been a partner to you? All my pennies don’t I spend
In gettin’ nice things for you? Don’t I give you lots of cake?
Say, stummick, what’s the matter, that you had to go an’ ache?
Why, I loaded you with good things; yesterday I gave you more
Potatoes, squash an’ turkey than you’d ever had before.
I gave you nuts an’ candy, pumpkin pie an’ chocolate cake,
An’ las’ night when I got to bed you had to go an’ ache.
Say, what’s the matter with you - ain’t you satisfied at all?
I gave you all you wanted, you was hard jes’ like a ball,
An’ you couldn’t hold another bit of puddin’, yet las’ night
You ached mos’ awful, stummick; that ain’t treatin’ me jes’ right.
I’ve been a friend to you, I have, why ain’t you a friend o’ mine?
They gave me castor oil last night because you made me whine.
I’m awful sick this mornin’ an’ I’m feelin’ mighty blue,
Because you don’t appreciate the things I do for you.
You've heard a lot about the time
That father carved the duck,
And how the bird jumped off the plate
And father cursed his luck.
Since then he's never had a chance
To test his carving skill,
For mother always wields the knife.
And mother always will.
Somehow, when mother carves a goose,
A turkey or a roast.
She wastes no time, as father would,
In idle jest or boast;
But straightway goes about the task,
And no one has to wait
For mother to reclaim the bird
Because it leaves the plate.
She separates the joints with ease,
She knows just where they are;
For her it doesn't seem hard work
The way it is with pa.
The gravy does not fly about
And scatter far and near;
When mother starts to carve the duck
There's not a thing to fear.
Poor father says he keenly feels
That he is in disgrace;
He often begs of mother to
Let him redeem his place.
But mother snubs him with a word,
Her will he cannot buck;
For she recalls to mind the day
That father carved the duck.
Thanksgiving Day has little charm
For father, for he knows
That he must watch while mother carves,
Remaining in repose.
He's waited now for many years,
And prayed that she'd get stuck;
He wants to get another chance
To try to carve a duck.
Oh, how he wishes that her knife
Would suddenly let fly;
That she would make a slip, as he
Had made in years gone by;
That she would fail, as he had failed,
That she would meet his luck;
But nothing ever happens when
Our mother carves the duck.