He plays in a band where they like to blow
So it's all night fun as the hot bongs glow
He hammers all the mods
His blues are quips for those bands
His fans adore, singin' an' buyin'
Wow Ginger, he is drumming
How they weep, his fans are sore
They've broken up an' left 'em wantin' more

He plays with a hand that is not so slow
'After Midnight' stuns as the hot strings glow
But soon we won't be keen
His eighties stuff will bore
We'll be alarmed, his sides a chore
We won't want his records
Soundin' cheap, depressin', poor
He's broken down an' we don't want no more
So now we're gonna stop our lis'ning to his croonin'
We'll cease to trust this din we play
Respite from his poor bluesin'