The Perfect Dinner Table

A table cloth that's slightly soiled

Where greasy little hands have toiled;

The napkins kept in silver rings,

And only ordinary things

From which to eat, a simple fare,

And just the wife and kiddies there,

And while I serve, the clatter glad

Of little girl and little lad

Who have so very much to say

About the happenings of the day.

Four big round eyes that dance with glee,

Forever flashing joys at me,

Two little tongues that race and run

To tell of troubles and of fun;

The mother with a patient smile

Who knows that she must wait awhile

Before she'll get a chance to say

What she's discovered through the day.

She steps aside for girl and lad

Who have so much to tell their dad.

Our manners may not be the best;

Perhaps our elbows often rest

Upon the table, and at times

That very worst of dinner crimes,

That very shameful act and rude

Of speaking ere you've downed your food,

Too frequently, I fear, is done,

So fast the little voices run.

Yet why should table manners stay

Those tongues that have so much to say?

At many a table I have been

Where wealth and luxury were seen,

And I have dined in halls of pride

Where all the guests were dignified;

But when it comes to pleasure rare

The perfect dinner table's where

No stranger's face is ever known:

The dinner hour we spend alone,

When little girl and little lad

Run riot telling things to dad.