Ben Franklin Mob H3

(Note: This appears to be the shorter, more commonly sung version of a longer riff on Red River Valley. Wings of an Eagle comes from the same song.)

Oh, take it in your hand, Mrs Murphy,
It only weighs a quarter of a pound.
It’s got hairs round its neck like a turkey,
And it spits when you rub it up and down.
(Some people spit their beer out instead of saying “spit”)

(Additional verse:)

Hold it in your mouth Mrs Murphy,
Tickle the tip with your tongue,
And if you should taste something salty,
Then you’ll surely know that I’ve come

(Full Hash Version:)

Come and sit on my face, if you love me,
Come and sit on my face, if you care,
And I’ll drink from your Red River Valley,
And munch on your curly pubic hairs.

Oh, if I had the wings of an eagle,
And the balls of a hairy baboon,
I would fly to the ends of creation,
And I’d butt-fuck the Man in the Moon.

Oh, take it in the hand, Mrs Murphy,
It feels just like a rolling pin.
But if you roll it between your hands,
It’ll take some time to be useful again.

Oh, take it in the mouth, Mrs Murphy,
It only weighs a quarter of a pound.
It’s got hairs round its neck like a turkey,
And it spits when you shake it up and down.

Oh, take it between the breasts, Mrs Murphy,
And look it staight in its one eye.
It will lie at peace between your bosom,
Until finally milk-tears you cry.

Oh, place it between your legs, Mrs Murphy,
It is just aching to crawl inside.
It has a helmet on its head like a soldier,
And it will shoot all its ammo, then die.

Oh, but never touch Flying Booger’s (insert hasher’s name), Mrs Murphy,
It seems his is covered with scabs.
His’s has warts all over like a horny toad,
And is protected by an army of crabs.

(Full rugby version:)

Give a cheer, give a cheer
For the men who drink the beer
In the cellar of Murphy’s saloon.
They are brave, they are bold
And the stories that are told
In the cellar of Murphy’s saloon.

For it’s guzzle, guzzle, guzzle
As they pour it down their muzzle
And shout out their orders loud and clear:
“More beer.”
For it’s more, more, more
As the cops break down the door
In the cellar of Murphy’s saloon.

Won’t you put it in your mouth Mrs. Murphy,
For it only weighs a quarter of a pound,
It’s got hair on its neck like a turkey
And it spits when you rub it up and down.

If I had the wings of an eagle
And the balls of a hairy baboon,
I’d fly up to the top of the mountain
And jack off on the man in the moon.

Now you say you’re still a virgin
But you’re cherry is not there anymore,
So why don’t you quit trying to be so perfect
And do the thing that you’re best known for.

For now you’ve got a throat like Linda Lovelace
And a cunt like the great cathouse whore,
So why don’t you please do my pecker a favor
And deep throat me on the barroom floor.

Now we’ve got a team called,
And peckers as long as a broom,
So won’t you please do your pussy a favor
And keep us mother fuckers out of your room.

We’ll eat you, beat you, and mistreat you,
While we’re singing our dirtiest verse,
Then we’ll stick it in your ear and dick you from the rear,
For that’s how we build up our thirst.

Sung by the whore house quartet.
Did you go and get it? Not yet.
Are you gonna get it? You bet.
Who you gonna get it from? Ginnette.