My daddy is the king of hearts but also the sharp spade.
He romps around, my hand in his, and calls me by his own name.
If I ever stop or stumble, it is soon followed by a grunt or grumble.
My daddy is an Irish temper with a Swedish kick.
He knows all the ways to heal my heart,
But also how to make it very sick.
In the chance that I may fail, it is his respect not mine,
That will surely be amiss.
My daddy grows all types of things,
The garden, his home, and his name.
Unfortunately, the one thing my daddy doesn't know,
Is how to make me sit and take a verbal beating quiet and lame.
I am my father's daughter.
I am Irish with a twist.
I waltz about with a sweet demeanor,
But watch out, I can bite and hiss.
I know the hearts of men and how feeble they can be,
And if you saw my daddy,
You'd run far away from me.
My daddy is the king of hearts and quite the wicked spade.
He sets me up and knocks me down,
But I love him all the same.
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