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He was short and fat, and rode out of the West
With a Mogen David on his silver vest.
He was mean and nasty right clear through,
Which was kinda weird, 'cause he was yellow too.
They called him Irving.
Big Irving.
Big, short Irving.
Big, short, fat Irving.
The hundred and forty-second fastest gun in the West.
He came from the old Bar Mitzvah spread,
With a 10-gallon yarmulke on his head.
He always followed his mother's wishes,
Even on the range he used two sets of dishes.
Irving.
Big, fat Irving.
Big sissy Irving.
The hundred and forty-second fastest gun in the West.
A hundred and forty-one could draw faster than he,
But Irving was looking for one forty-three.
Walked into Sol's Saloon like a man insane,
And ordered three fingers of two cents plain.
Irving.
Big, fat Irving.
Big sport Irving.
The hundred and forty-second fastest gun in the West.
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