F                  C
Oh, he doesn't smell like Irish Spring, 
       Bb              F
And he never taught me anything, 
    Bb              F
But still I slap my chest and sing - 
      G             C
Of My Drunken Irish Dad.
        F                 C
Oh, his face looks like a railroad map, 
       Bb              F
And he never shuts his freakin' trap... 
    Bb             F
But all the ladies catch the clap 
          G             C
From your Drunken Irish Dad. 

      Bb                    A
Ask a Hennessey, Tennessey, Morrison, 
             Bb
Shaughnessy, Reardon, and Rooney... 
        A
They'll tell you the same 
Bb                      A
McNulty, Mulrooney, and Connor and Clooney, 
    Bb                       C
All feel the same mixture of pride and of 
shame. 

Bb                  A
Finnegan, Hannigan, Kelly, and Flanagan. 
Bb                 A
Look to the ground while their dad passes by 
Bb                  A
Cafferty, Rafferty, Joyce and O'Lafferty, 
Bb                      C
Fight for his honor and then start to cry! 

F-C-Bb-C-F-C-G-C F-C-Bb-C-F-C-G-G-C

       F              C
Oh, we Irish lads are all infirm, 
        Bb              F
And our moods infect us like a germ 
       Bb                       F
'Cause we're all the spawn of a pickled sperm... 

 And we don't tan well either.
       G       C     F
From a Drunken Irish Dad!!!