A table cloth that's slightly soiled <br />Where greasy little hands have toiled; <br />The napkins kept in silver rings, <br />And only ordinary things <br />From which to eat, a simple fare, <br />And just the wife and kiddies there, <br />And while I serve, the clatter glad <br />Of little girl and little lad <br />Who have so very much to say <br />About the happenings of the day. <br /> <br />Four big round eyes that dance with glee, <br />Forever flashing joys at me, <br />Two little tongues that race and run <br />To tell of troubles and of fun; <br />The mother with a patient smile <br />Who knows that she must wait awhile <br />Before she'll get a chance to say <br />What she's discovered through the day. <br />She steps aside for girl and lad <br />Who have so much to tell their dad. <br /> <br />Our manners may not be the best; <br />Perhaps our elbows often rest <br />Upon the table, and at times <br />That very worst of dinner crimes, <br />That very shameful act and rude <br />Of speaking ere you've downed your food, <br />Too frequently, I fear, is done, <br />So fast the little voices run. <br />Yet why should table manners stay <br />Those tongues that have so much to say? <br /> <br />At many a table I have been <br />Where wealth and luxury were seen, <br />And I have dined in halls of pride <br />Where all the guests were dignified; <br />But when it comes to pleasure rare <br />The perfect dinner table's where <br />No stranger's face is ever known: <br />The dinner hour we spend alone, <br />When little girl and little lad <br />Run riot telling things to dad.<br /><br />Edgar Albert Guest<br /><br />http://www.poemhunter.com/poem/the-perfect-dinner-table/
