Table Manners

2005 May 16

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Dinner's being served, so find a seat.

No need to push; there's plenty to eat.

Not to say grace would be a sin,

but after the prayer just dig right in.

So pass the butter, pass the peas,

pass the biscuits if you please.

Pass the wine to fill my glass,

but please, oh please, don't pass the gas.

"It smells so good," I hear you say.

And we certainly want to keep it that way.

So let's all try to show some class,

and please, oh please, don't pass the gas.

Slice the bread with your knife

and butter up the staff of life.

Cut your meat with practiced ease,

but please try not to cut the cheese.

When the host brings in the pot of beans

we all know what that act means.

On strong restraint our hopes are pinned

to prevent us all from breaking wind.

The sauerkraut is just the worst,

your gut feels as if it's about to burst.

You struggle hard not to pass

those great big clouds of toxic gas.

You strive to withhold the lethal aroma

lest you put the other guests into a coma.

Oh, belay the foghorn and the silent but deadly

and the honks and toots of the vaporous medley.

Lest you tarnish the silver and corrode the brass,

please, oh please, don't pass the gas.


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