Soliloquy Frank Sinatra
I wonder what think he'll of me
I guess he'll call me the old man
I guess he'll think I can lick
Every other feller's father
Well
I can
I bet that he'll turn out to be
The spitting image of his dad
But he'll have more common sense
Than his puddin headed father ever had
I'll teach him to wrassle
And dive through a wave
When we go in the morning for our swim
His mother can teach him
The way to behave
But she won't make a sissy out o' him
Not him
Not my boy
Not Bill
My boy
Bill
I will see that he is named after me
I will
My boy
Bill
He'll be tall
And tough as a tree
Will Bill
Like a tree he'll grow
With his head held high
And his feet planted firm on the ground
And you won't see nobody dare to try
To boss or toss him around
No pot bellied
Baggy eyed bully'll toss him around
Don't give I a d**n what he does
As long as he does what he likes
He can sit on his tail
Or work on a rail
A hammer
With hammering spikes
He can ferry a boat on a river
Or peddle a pack on his back
Or work up and down
The streets of a town
With a whip and a horse and a hack
He can haul a scow along a canal
Run a cow around a corral
Or maybe bark for a carousel
Of course it takes talent to do that well
He might be a champ of theheavyweights
Or a feller that sells you glue
Or President of the United States
That'd be all right too
His mother would like that
But he wouldn't be President unless he wanted to be
Not Bill
My boy
Bill
He'll be tall
And as tough as a tree
Will Bill
Like a tree he'll grow
With his head held high
And his feet planted firm on the ground
And you won't see nobody dare to try
To boss or toss him around
No fat bottomed
Flabby faced
Pot bellied
Baggy eyed bastard'll boss
Him around
And I'll be d**ned if he'll marry the boss' daughter
A skinny lipped virgin with blood like water
Who'll give him a peck
And call it a kiss
And look in his eyes through a lorgnet
Say
Why am I talking on like this
My kid ain't even been yet
Born
I can see him when he's seventeen or so
And starting to go with a girl
I can give him lots of pointers
Very sound
On the way to get 'round any girl
I can tell him
Wait a minute
Could it be
What the hell
If he What is a girl
You can have fun with a son
But you got to be a father to a girl
She mighn't be so bad at that
A kid with ribbons in her hair
A kind o' neat and petite
Little tin type of her mother
What a pair
My little girl
Pink and white
As peaches and cream is she
My little girl
Is half again as bright
As girls are meant to be
Dozens of boys pursue her
Many a likely lad does what he can to woo her
From her faithful dad
She has a few
Pink and white young fellers of two and three
But little my girl
Gets hungry every night and she come home to me
I got to get ready before she comes
I got to make certain that she
Won't be dragged up in slums
With a lot o' bums like me
She's got to be sheltered
And be dressed in the best money can buy
I never knew how to get money
But
I'll try
By God
I'll try
I'll go out and make it or steal it
Or take it or die
