There lives a maid with a silver spork,
And whenever something daft is said,
She drives that spork into her forehead.
Ah, Maid of Féil, I'll tell you true,
You're the Maid of Féil, whate'er you do,
And where'er you go you leave a trail —
Of wreckage for you're the Maid of Féil.
She could catch a fish with a single stroke,
Into her nets, but her nets were broke,
For you see her nets were made of tubes —
Ah, Maid of Féil, you are such a n00b.
She saw a lad from the fields walk in,
He was picking flowers for the win-
some maid he spied who lived next door —
To the Maid of Féil, whom he did ignore.
If this was a proper Irish tale,
It'd end with the death of the Maid of Féil,
By English soldiers calling crude,
"I'm in ur base, killin ur d00dz."
But it's not.