Mick The Master Farter by Kevin Bloody Wilson, tabs and chords at PlayUkuleleNET

Mick The Master Farter

Biography:

Kevin Bloody Wilson (born '''Dennis Bryant''' on 13 February 1947 in Sydney, Australia) is a comedy singer/songwriter who uses a heavy Australian accent/style with great success. Without the aid of radio or Television coverage (due to the explicit, crude and sexual nature of his songs and general humour), he has built up a widespread cult following.

== Early career ==
Bryant was born in Sydney, New South Wales, although he identifies himself with Kalgoorlie, Western Australia, where he was an electrician in the gold mines.

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Four years of hard work!

This month of May we celebrated four years on the air. We continue working on the dissemination of this wonderful instrument, thank you for participating in our story!

Band - Kevin Bloody Wilson
Album - Kevs Back(Return of the Yobbo)
Song - Mick The Master Farter
Tabbed by - Taylor Wasielewski(Singer/ Guitarist of Cantopulous)

E] [A] [B7] [A] [E]

I first [E]met him in the classroom back in [A]1963
And [B7]we seemed to hit it off pretty good, we were [A]mates, Mick and [E]me
He [E]wasn't such a big kid, even [A]back then at the start
And he [B7]wasn't all that clever either, but Jesus he could [E]fart

I first [E]found that out in class one day, when [A]things were going pretty slow
And [B7]just to keep us all amused, Mick let this [A]fucking ripper [E]go
Well, you [E]should’ve been there, look, I'd [A]describe it if I could
But [B7]I just turned around, and I said, "Hey Mick you’re fucking [E]good"

And at the [E]end of school Grand Final on the [A]rugby field that time
[B7]We were getting beaten, they were [A]12 and we were [E]9
And play was [E]3 yards from our goal-line, when the [A]referee called a scrum
And [B7]Mick said, "Don't worry fellas, we've as good as got it [E]won"

So we just [E]locked ourselves down in the scrum, and we [A]held each other’s nose
And [B7]Mick our little hooker, he let this [A]fucking ripper [E]go
Well, it [E]stung their nose, and it burnt their eyes, and it [A]even scorched the grass
And I [B7]twigged right then and there, he had a double jointed [E]arse

Chorus:
[A]Mick, me mate the master [E]farter
Put the art back into farting, with his custom tailored [B7]farts
[A]Mick, me mate the master [E]farter
Broke new ground in breaking wind, with his [B7]double jointed [E]arse [A] [B7] [A] [E]

And it was [E]just a couple of years later, we both [A]went to see Kamaahl
It was a [B7]really poshy sort of show, in this [A]great big bloody [E]hall
And all the [E]blokes were dressed like penguins, and you [A]should have seen the sorts
And [B7]Kamaahl himself wore a sheilas dress, like a bloody black Boy [E]George

And we were all [E]locked in there like sardines, for the [A]show to get underway
But the [B7]tuba player didn't lob, he'd [A]booked off crook that [E]day
And Kamaahl said, [E]"Without a tuba player, I [A]cannot commence the show"
So old [B7]Mick jumps up said, "Sambo mate, I'll have a fucking [E]go"

Well, from [E]then on in I honestly thought, that the [A]whole show would be ruined
But he just [B7]winked at me and picked that tuba up, just like he [A]knew what he was [E]doing
Then the [E]maestro tapped his little stick to [A]tell the band to start
And [B7]Mick just shut his eyes and cocked his leg, and then began to [E]fart

Well you [E]could have heard a pin drop, that [A]night there in the hall
And it's [B7]hard to say who sounded best, Mick [A]farting or Ka[E]maahl
Then the [E]audience just went apeshit, they [A]cheered and clapped and stood
And [B7]Kamaahl smiled as if to say, "Hey Mick, you’re fucking [E]good

Chorus:
[A]Mick me mate the master [E]farter
Put the art back into farting, with his custom tailored [B7]farts
[A]Mick me mate the master [E]farter
With his true-pitch perfect, calibrated, [B7]double jointed [E]arse [A] [B7] [A] [E]

Well, [E]good news travels fast it seems and it [A]wasn't very long
Before [B7]Mick got this midnight phonecall from Ben [A]Lexan and Alan [E]Bond
They said, [E]"Mick we've got this specialist job, and [A]we're prepared to pay ya
[B7]Mick old son would you consider farting for Aust[E]ralia"

We'll just [E]prop you on our brand new yacht, when [A]there’s no sea-breeze blowing
And get [B7]Mick the master farter to start her and [A]keep the bastard [E]going
So [E]Mick went into training on [A]sausage rolls and pies
And [B7]Vegemite and Fosters beer and a scholarship from [E]Heinz

The [E]world had never seen before a [A]yacht so finely groomed
Or a [B7]crew so fit and young and strong, or an [A]arse so finely [E]tuned
The [E]Yanks weren't even in the race, not [A]even in the same class
What with [B7]Ben Lexan and his secret keel and Micks fuel injected [E]arse

Well he [E]come back a bloody hero didn't he, the [A]all Australian boy
And [B7]government commissioned this bloke to do a big [A]statue of his [E]koy
And [E]I can still see Mick standing there when [A]they confirmed his Knighthood
And [B7]Bob[NC] Hawke pinning it on saying, "Hey Mick, you’re fucking [E]good"

Chorus:
[A]Mick me mate the master [E]farter
Put the class back into farting, with his designer-label [B7]farts
[A]Mick me mate the master [E]farter
[B7]Wth his true-pitch perfect, calibrated, turbo thrusted, fuel injected, W.I.N.G.S. protected,
[B7]double jointed [E]arse [A] [B7] [A] [E]