When I was just a little boy, I asked my mother, “What will I be?
Will I be handsome, will I be rich?”
Here’s what she said to me:
“Que sera sera, whatever will be will be,
The future’s not ours to see, que sera sera.”

Not satisfied with her reply, I asked my father, “What will I be?
Will I get face hair, will I be strong?”
Here’s what he said to me:
“Que sera sera, can’t you just let it be?
Shut up and eat your tea, que sera sera.”

As I sat musing on their words, I told my parents, “Listen to me,
We are not Spanish, we’re not in Spain,
What’s with the repartee?
Make your point,” I said, “in the language we speak instead,
You’re aching my head,” I said,
“now please pass the brie.”