Lyrics Soliloquy - Frank Sinatra

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