| |
| When I was just a little lad |
| My father used to say, |
| "Come on, my son, and walk with me |
| To Sunday School today". |
| And with my hand clasped tight in his |
| My heart would swell with joy |
| For I knew I had the greatest Dad |
| God ever gave a boy. |
| |
| When I became a teenager |
| And wanted to be free |
| To do the things the gang was doing |
| My Dad would say to me, |
| "If you would go to church with me |
| You'd find some really good pals there" |
| And I would shake my head and wonder |
| Why my Dad was such a square. |
| |
| Then I went away to college |
| And when I'd feel kind of sad |
| I used to long for mail time |
| And a letter from my Dad. |
| And I marveled at the wisdom |
| In the words he'd write to me |
| And I just couldn't figure how |
| He got so smart so suddenly. |
| |
| And now that I'm a father |
| Of a curly-headed lad |
| Who doesn't hesitate to tell me |
| That he has the greatest Dad |
| I could only pray that I'll be able |
| To survive that teenage stare |
| That will tell me, oh, so clearly |
| "Poor old Dad, you're such a square". |
