My Way

My Way. AHEM: No song ever recorded can touch Frank’s rendition of this classic.  He Owns!

But I hate it.

It’s the song most frequently played at British funerals.  It’s also one of the most popular songs chosen for karaoke.  The sum of these two supports my theory that to embrace the philosophy of this song, you’d have to be either drunk, or dead.

When I face the final curtain, I don’t think I’ll have the audacity to say, Regrets I’ve had…too few to mention. I have too many regrets to mention!  (I dare say, so did Frank.)  Seriously, can anybody honestly say, I planned each charted course? And when we did bite off more than [we] could chew, would we say on our deathbed, I ate it up and spit it out? (Well, actually, that does remind me of feeding time for the little lady. TMI)

Doing things my way always got me into trouble.  I’ve had my fill, my share of losing. But now, as tears subside, I do not find it all so amusing.

Why this blog this morning, Laura?  It follows a question I answered online:

Marijuana, any thoughts?”

This was my answer:

= – =

‘Makes you hungry, ‘Makes you lazy;

‘Makes your brain All dumb and daze-y.

Skip it now, And you can bet:

When you get older, No regrets!

= – =

Tell me if I’m wrong, but the oddly written final stanza of My Way seems to say this:  What does a man have but to stand up and say whatever he wants to, rather than kowtow to others?

That, my dear readers, goes against every lesson I have learned:  The record shows I took the blows. My way was…the hard way.

 

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