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!!!