My Way

About a week ago, loud, virile singing wafted up from the Club des Pétanquiers in the ramparts. Not an unusual occurrence, as there are some Spanish speakers, probably dustbin-men or street cleaners, who during their break for breakfast clap artfully and sing flamenco style with glottal verve. Most of the time it is traditional, if long, laments of lost love, with ululations and piercing, gonad-wrung ejaculations of suffering.

This time, the complex clapping was the same, the melismata, too, were equally Moorish, but there was something about the prosody and, albeit almost completely hidden, about the melody that was familiar. I listened to the words, catching on nearly at the end of the outpouring:

Puedo llegar
hasta el final
A mi manera

Got it: it was the Antibes refuse department's rousing Spanish language version of "I'll do it my way". I think Ole Blue Eyes would have approved.