Oh, he doesn't smell like Irish Spring,
And he never taught me anything,
But still I slap my chest and sing -
Of My [bad word] Irish Dad.
Oh, his face looks like a railroad map,
And he never shuts his freakin' trap...

Mickey: But all the ladies catch the clap
From your [bad word] Irish Dad.

Peter: Ask a Hennessey, Tennessey, Morrison,
Shaughnessy, Reardon, and Rooney...
They'll tell you the same
McNulty, Mulrooney, and Carter and Clooney,
All feel the same mixture of pride and of
shame.

Mickey: 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!

(People in the bar dance and brawl while others play the fiddle, tin whistle, and concertina.)

Both: 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...

Mickey: (Spoken) And we don't tan well either.

All: ...From a [bad word] Irish Dad!!