So funny.
My parents thought it was so funny to dress me up in my finery
and take me into Boston for kicks. 
"Baby Sinatra," they called me then.
"Baby Sinatra," they called me then. Soft shoes, a crisp onesie, pressed slacks: Sharp as a pin.
North End, South End, Brookline,
I hit all of the hot-spots for nickels, dimes,
and sometimes just for appetizers.
"Oh, Yes. And how do you do?"
"Yes, sir the weather has been unusually fair lately."
"That sweater really brings out the color in your bridgework."
"And a Good Evening to you Ma'am," I would doff my cap to the ladies.
And, as the lights dimmed and the floor cleared, my father and I would gather our wits and start the show.
"Me and my Shadow," he'd whisper with a wink,
as we strolled onto the stage
and into our act like an overly worn pair of socks.
Some nights. Heck--most nights,
when those familiar tunes would start,
we really did knock 'em out.
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