| I wonder what he’ll think of me
|
| I guess he’ll call me the «old man»
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| I guess he’ll think I can lick
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| Ev’ry other feller’s father
|
| Well, I can!
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| I bet that he’ll turn out to be
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| The spittin' image of his dad
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| But he’ll have more common sense
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| Than his puddin-headed father ever had
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| I’ll teach him to wrassle
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| And dive through a wave
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| When we go in the mornin’s for our swim
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| His mother can teach him
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| The way to behave
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| But she won’t make a sissy out o' him
|
| Not him! |
| Not my boy! |
| Not Bill!
|
| 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
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| And his feet planted firm on the ground
|
| And you won’t see nobody dare to try
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| To boss or toss him around!
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| No pot-bellied, baggy-eyed bully’ll toss him around
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| I don’t give a damn what he does
|
| As long as he does what he likes!
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| He can sit on his tail
|
| Or work on a rail
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| With a hammer, hammering spikes!
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| He can ferry a boat on a river
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| Or peddle a pack on his back
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| Or work up and down
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| The streets of a town
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| With a whip and a horse and a hack
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| He can haul a scow along a canal
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| Run a cow around a corral
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| Or maybe bark for a carousel
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| 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
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| Him around
|
| And I’ll be damned 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 talkin' on like this?
|
| My kid ain’t even been born, yet!
|
| I can see him when he’s seventeen or so
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| 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?
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| What the hell!
|
| What if he is a girl?
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| 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 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!
|
| I can just hear myself bragging about her!
|
| 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 my little girl
|
| Gets hungry ev’ry night and she come home to me!
|
| My little girl, my little girl!
|
| I got to get ready before she comes!
|
| I got to make certain that she
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| Won’t be dragged up in slums
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| 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! |