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!!!