My mom would always make a *** roast on Friday night
there were candles lit on a table so fine
the best of linens, and fine china to dine
a nine course meal /starting with salad of course
potatoes n' carrots and fresh apple pie
the apples were picked from our orchard tree's
a soft gentle breeze came from West from the sea
the smell of a salt water ocean wafted on in
this holy night would always begin
with a prayer at table before we'd dig in..
where calm would reign on our family that night
the house swept clean, and everything gleamed
Oh, how I miss those Friday nights
where holy, and sacred were sewn at the seams.