We all look on with anxious eyes
When Father carves the duck
And mother almost always sighs
When Father carves the duck
Then all of us prepare to rise
And hold our bibs before our eyes
And be prepared for some surprise
When Father carves the duck.
He braces up and grabs a fork
Whene’er he carves a duck
And won’t allow a soul to talk
Until he’s carved the duck.
The fork is jabbed into the sides
Across the breast the knife he slide
While every careful person hides
From flying chips of duck.
The platter’s always sure to slip
When Father carves a duck.
And how it makes the dishes skip!
Potatoes fly amuck!
The squash and cabbage leap in space
We get some gravy in our face
And Father mutters Hindu grace
Whene’er he carves a duck.
We then have learned to walk around
the dining room and pluck
From off the windowsills and walls
Our share of Father’s duck
While Father growls and blows and jaws
And swears the knife was full of flaws
And Mother laughs at him because
He couldn’t carve a duck.
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