MARTY B.
When I turn my radio on in the summer,
little Marty speaks to me,
barking words of wisdom, Marty B.
And in his
sour darkness he is
older than the tallest tree,
knew Rixey, Roush and Pinson and Bid McPhee.
Marty B., Marty B., Marty B., Marty B.
Mahogany
leather skin, Marty B.
He tends to use the phrase “you people” when he’s speaking
grumpily,
tiny like a ballet dancer, Marty B.
Franchester’s what they called him, his hair is as white as clean new sheets,
you’ll rarely hear him stammer. Marty B.
Marty B., Marty B., Marty B., Marty B., he’s the long-time Reds announcer, Marty B.
Marty B., Marty B., Marty B., Marty B., too small to be a bouncer, Marty B.
Marty B., Marty B., Marty B. yeah Marty B., spittin’ words of
venom, Marty B.
And when he’s Mr.
Frowny, he is still all right, all right with me,
outlived Greta Garbo, Marty B.
I love his hair, the way he poofs it, little Marty is handsome ya see,
Golden girls adore him, Marty B.
Marty B., Marty B., Marty B. yeah Marty B. he uses perfect grammar, Marty B.
Marty B. Marty B., Marty B., yeah Marty B., he owns a little hamster, Marty B.
Marty B., Marty B., yeah Marty B., yeah Marty B., he wears a suit of denim, Marty B.