SONG OF THE VICAR'S DAUGHTER
My father is a vicar,
A vicar's toast is he.
He chain-smokes like a trooper,
But gives his love to me.
With Sunday worship on his plate,
A prayer book on the stand,
He staggers to the pulpit
On legs that need a hand.
Then down behind the lectern,
To help his sermon soar,
He tucks away the whisky
That keeps his throat from sore,
As "Praise the Lord for His good gifts
To mortals here below,"
Booms forth upon those ruddy lips
Where cherished blessings glow!
