We have a dear old father,
To whom we dearly pray,
He has a set of whiskers,
They're always in the way.
Oh, they're always in the way
The cows eat them for hay,
The hide the dirt on Father's shirt,
They're always in the way.
We have a dear old mother,
With him at night she sleeps,
She wakes up in the morning,
Eating shredded wheat.
Oh, they're always in the way
The cows eat them for hay,
The hide the dirt on Father's shirt,
They're always in the way.
We have a dear old brother,
He has a Ford machine,
He uses Father's whiskers
To strain the gasoline.
Oh, they're always in the way
The cows eat them for hay,
The hide the dirt on Father's shirt,
They're always in the way.
We have a dear old sister,
It really is a laugh,
She sprinkles Father's whiskers,
As bath salts in her bath.
Oh, they're always in the way
The cows eat them for hay,
The hide the dirt on Father's shirt,
They're always in the way.
Father has a son,
His name is Sonny Jim,
He wants to grow some whiskers,
But Father won't let him.
Oh, they're always in the way
The cows eat them for hay,
The hide the dirt on Father's shirt,
They're always in the way.
Father has a daughter,
Her name is Ella-Mae,
She climbs up Father's whiskers,
And braids them all the way.
Oh, they're always in the way
The cows eat them for hay,
The hide the dirt on Father's shirt,
They're always in the way.
Around the supper table,
We make a merry group,
Until dear Father's whiskers
Get tangled in the soup.
Oh, they're always in the way
The cows eat them for hay,
The hide the dirt on Father's shirt,
They're always in the way.
Father fought in Flanders,
He wasn't killed, you see;
His whiskers looked like bushes,
And fooled the enemy.
Oh, they're always in the way
The cows eat them for hay,
The hide the dirt on Father's shirt,
They're always in the way.
When Father goes in swimming,
No bathing suit for him,
He ties his whiskers 'round his waist,
And gaily plunges in.
Oh, they're always in the way
The cows eat them for hay,
The hide the dirt on Father's shirt,
They're always in the way.
Father went out sailing,
The wind blew down the mast;
He hoisted up his whiskers,
And never went so fast.
Oh, they're always in the way
The cows eat them for hay,
The hide the dirt on Father's shirt,
They're always in the way.
Father, in a tavern,
He likes his lager beer,
He pins a pretzel on his nose
To keep his whiskers clear.
Oh, they're always in the way
The cows eat them for hay,
The hide the dirt on Father's shirt,
They're always in the way.
Father went out chopping;
He struck a mighty blow,
He pinned down all his whiskers,
Now hear those cuss words flow.
Oh, they're always in the way
The cows eat them for hay,
The hide the dirt on Father's shirt,
They're always in the way.
Father went out skiing,
He thought he'd try a schuss,
He caught his whiskers on his skis
And landed on his puss.
Oh, they're always in the way
The cows eat them for hay,
The hide the dirt on Father's shirt,
They're always in the way.
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