My Drunken Irish Dad

Oh, he doesn't smell like Irish Spring

And he never taught me anything

But still, I slap my chest and sing

Of my drunken Irish dad

Oh, his face looks like a railroad map

And he never shuts his freakin' trap

But all the ladies catch the clap

Fom your drunken Irish dad

Ask a Hennessy, Tennessee, Moris, and Chanis

Riddick and Rooney, they'll tell you the same

McDaulty, Marooney, and Cauder and Clooney

All feel the same mixture of pride and of shame

Finigen, Hanigan, Kelly, and Flanagan

Look to the ground when their dad passes by

Caperty, Raperty, Joyce, and O'Naferty

Fight for his honor and then start to cry

Oh, we Irish lads are all in firm

And our boots in fact are slang of germ

'Cause we're all the spawn of a pickled sperm

And we don't tan well, either

From a drunken Irish dad