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 feller's father

Well, I can!

I bet that he'll turn out to be

The spittin' image of his dad

But he'll have more common sense

Than his puddin'-headed father ever had

I'll teach him to wrestle and dive through a wave

When we go in the mornings 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's 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'll boss him around

I don't give a darn 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, hammering spikes

He can ferry a boat on a river

Or peddle a pack on his back

Or work up and down

The street 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 the heavyweights

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 'less 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'll boss him around

And I'm damned if he'll marry his boss's 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 lorgnette—

Say, why am I takin' on like this?

My kid ain't even been born yet!

I can see him when he's seventeen or so

And startin' in 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, what if he is a girl?

A girl?

What would I do with her?

What could I do for her?

A bum with no money!

You can have fun with a son

But you gotta be a father to a girl

She mightn't be so bad at that

A kid with ribbons in her hair

A kind of sweet and petite

Little tintype of her mother

What a pair!

When I have a daughter

I'll stand around in barrooms

Oh, how I'll boast and blow

Friends'll see me comin'

And empty all the barrooms

Through every door they'll go

Weary of hearin' day after day

The same old things that I always say

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 or three

But my little girl

Gets hungry every night

And she comes home to me

I gotta get ready before she comes

I gotta make certain that she

Won't be dragged up in slums

With a lot of bums like me

She's gotta be sheltered

And fed and dressed

In the best that money can buy

I never know 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!