Soliloquy

I wonder what he'll think of me

I guess he'll call me the old man

I guess he'll think I can lick

Every other fellas father

Well, I can

I bet that he turns out to be

The spittin' image of his dad

But, he'll have more common sense

Than his pudding-headed father, ever had

I'll teach him to wressle

And dive through wave

When we go in the morning's for our swim

His mother can teach him

The way to behave

But, she won't make a sissy out of 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 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 him or toss him around

No pot-bellied, baggy-eyed bully will boss him around

I don't give a damn what he does

As long as he does what he likes

He can sit on his tail

Or work on a rail with a

Hammer and 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 champ of the heavyweights

Or a fella 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 him or toss him around

No fat-bottomed, flabby-faced, pot-bellied, baggy-eyed bully will boss

Him around

And, I'm damned if he'll marry his bosses 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 takin' on like this?

My kid ain't even been born, yet

I can see him when he's 17 or so

And startin' 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?

What if he is a girl?

You can have fun with a son

But you've got to be a father to a girl

She mightn't be so bad at that

A kid with ribbons in her hair

A kind of 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 were 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 fellas of two and three

My little girl

Gets hungry every night and she comes home to me

I got to get ready before she comes

Got to make certain that she

Won't be dragged up in slums

With a lot of bums like me

She's got to be sheltered

And fed and 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