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, Riordan, 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 when their dad passes by
Cafferty, Rafferty, Joyce and O'Lafferty, fight for his honor and then start to cry!
(Dance sequence)

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: And we don't tan well either.
All: ...From a [bad word] Irish Dad!!