When I was lad, I had a bad dad,
I mean he was bad in a way,
Every nickle and cent for liquor he spent,
Till death came and stole him away.
"Flowers, boquets of flowers," I cry.
I may not look neat
While walking the street,
While working for Mother and I.
My mother took sick, they said she would die,
But to bear all her troubles she strove.
She called me to her bed, what do you recon she said?
To meet her in Heaven above.
Oh, tell me a man who never did wrong,
Who never stayed out at night,
Who stayed at his home and minded his own,
And rocked his dear children to sleep.