When Father Carves the Duck

[Perhaps carving a turkey is easier -- libby]

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 slides, 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 Hindoo grace —Whene'er he carves a duck. We then have learned to walk around —The dining room and pluck From off the window sills 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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