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