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
From your Drunken Irish Dad.
Ask a Hennessey, Tennessey, Morrison,
Shaughnessy, Reardon, and Rooney
They'll tell you the same
McNulty, Mulrooney, and Connor and Clooney,
All feel the same mixture of pride and of
shame.
Finnegan, Hannigan, Kelly, and Flanagan.
Look to the ground while their dad passes by
Cafferty, Rafferty, Joyce and O'Lafferty,
Fight for his honor and then start to cry!
Oh, we Irish lads are all infirm,
And our moods infect us like a germ
'Cause we're all the spawn of a pickled sperm
And we don't tan well either.
From a Drunken Irish Dad!!!