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!