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I’ve got a mate named Marty who went through the school with me,
but like most teenage scholars gave the teachers buggery,
and when it came to penning words, Marty wasn’t very smart,
but put a brush into his hand then he’d produce the finest art. 

He would sit there in a corner with an easel, paint, and sketch
the interesting likeness of an unsuspecting wretch, 
who preferred scholastic subjects, English, Maths for just a start,
and found them-selves quite bored when enforced to practice art.

And so it was as time went by throughout our schooling years,
the marks we got would set us up towards our new careers,
but Marty’s marks were special and it set him quite apart.  
Ten for English; five for Maths - and ninety-nine for Art.

So as you see I told the truth about me good mate Marty.
He can barely read; he cannot write; but he is very arty.
When he talks he’s got a drawl that comes out long and slow,
but he’s the bloke the arty world have really got to know.

I marvel at his landscapes that a photograph can’t beat,
and his images of animals, with their muscle tone complete.
And lifelike metaphors of models are not open for debate, 
for no artist can match Marty when he chooses a portrait.

Now in galleries around the world, in festivals and shows,
where the finest artists gather, the name of Marty grows.
He is requested now by royalty; the social set desire him there, 
and Marty through his painting has become a millionaire. 

That’s right I passed in English and in Maths me mark was tops,
but I’m working in a factory and the shift work never stops.
I’m paying off a house and car and hardly have a bob to spare,
and Marty who can’t read and write, is now a millionaire. 

He is me mate, is Marty, and mates should help each other out,
and if one of us falls on good times then ought to be a scout,
and share their wealth, or some of it, with one who’s down on luck, 
so I called in to say g’day and see what I could pluck.

To my amazement Marty still, had not changed his way a wink.
He couldn’t read, he couldn’t write and he could barely think,
but when marveling ‘round his studio at portraits or a scene,
I noticed pulling up outside was a stretch limousine.

This woman tanned and beautiful then walked up to the door,
and when she knocked I opened it and she then took the floor.
She asked Marty if he wouldn’t mind to paint her in the nude,
and that money is no object as long as he does nothing crude.

Marty stumbled and he stammered as he tried to face the fact.
He took me to one side and asked me how would I react.
With foreseeing tingling nerves I gave an answer straight away,
“Do it Marty, do it … and for God’s sake let me stay!”

I anticipated on this lady with her looks beyond belief;
then nervous Marty drawled out while he’s shaking like a leaf,
“All right I’ll paint you in the nude, though your pleading shocks,
but I have to wipe me brushes - so can I wear me socks?”
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