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 fellow'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 wrassle and dive through a wave when we go in the mornings for a 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!
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 puck-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.
A hammer and spikes.
He can ferry a boat on a river.
Or pedal a pack on his back.
Or work up and down the streets of a town with a whip and a horse and a ****.
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 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, fatty-faced, hot-bellied, baggy-eyed * will 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 have I taken 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 he is a girl?
Bill.
Oh, Bill.
What would I do?
What could I do with her?
What could I do for her?
Me?
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 neat and petite.
Little tintype of her mother.
What a pair.
My little girl.
Pink and white as peaches and cream is she.
My little girl.
Is love 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 fellas of two and three.
But my little girl gets hungry every night.
And she comes home to me.
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 bones like me
She's gotta be sheltered and fed and dressed
In the best that money can buy
I never knew how to get money
But I'll try, my God, I'll try
I'll go out and make it or steal it
Or take it or die
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