The Folker

Well, my name is “Fingers Murphy” but my story's seldom

told,

I massacre folk music with a yard of German plywood and

a plectrum,

I do requests-just the ones that have two chords in,

And I disregard the rest,

Na na nya na na na na na na nya etc . . .

Well, I stand on stage the hero a martyr to me trade,

And carry the reminders of all the gigs I've played in

like the Irish Club-in Luton,

Where I fled in mortal fear—with the imprint of a

Guinness bottle stamped across my ear

Na na nya na na na na na na nya etc . . .

Seeking twenty with expenses I went looking for a gig

Got no offers--just a come on from a groupie up in

Neasden,

I do declare--I was feeling rather randy so I had her

then and there,

Na na nya na na na na na na nya etc . . .

Na na na-ya Na na na na na na na-ya

Na na na-ya Na na na na na na na-ya

Na na na-ya Na na na na na na na-ya

Well, I've sung the full tradition with my finger in my

ear,

Cause half the stuff I'm singin'—I just can't bear to

hear—it's a load of cobblers,

Bar after bar--to the rhythm of an out of tune Japanese

guitar

Na na nya na na na na na na nya etc . . .

Well, I met this great guitarist-I asked him for

advice,

But the message that he gave me--wasn't very nice or

even civil,

Stick it where--and if I did how could I tune it with

it stuck way up there,

Na na nya na na na na na na nya etc . . .