Could play the game and score
But now that Dad can't even punt
He ain't super anymore.
His kids admired his prowess
And the way he ran the floor
But now that Dad can't throw the ball
He ain't super anymore.
And years ago Dad wooed his wife
And had romance rapport
But now his game is on TV
And all he is, is sore.
Sometimes we catch Dad dreaming
That he'll have a fine encore
But Dad can't run, and he can't jump,
And his love techniques are poor.
Dad watches others win the prize
Though he dreams of grid-iron war,
But if somebody tackled him
He'd break in pieces . . . four.
He hasn't got a chance in hell
To play like he did before,
Now all he eats is nacho chips
And he's gassy to the core.
Though young men dream of glory
And his wife wants sex some more
Dad hasn't got the chutzpa
To play there anymore.
All Dad can do is open beer
And scratch his open drawer.
No, Dad can't play no football.
He ain't super anymore.
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