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 petticoats.
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 'til 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 sailor's sorry racket calls for maidenhead
And she's scarce above the gunholes
When her clothes fall to a bundle
And she's laid in bed
On the upper deck.

Lalalala, la la, lalalala, la la

And so she goes from ship to ship,
Her ankles clasped,
Her arms so rudely pinioned.

'til 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 thirty 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.

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