SOMEBODYâ€™S little girlâ€”how easy to make a sob story over who she was once and who she is now. Somebodyâ€™s little girlâ€”she played once under a crab-apple tree in June and the blossoms fell on the dark hair.
It was somewhere on the Erie line and the town was Salamanca or Painted Post or Horseâ€™s Head. And out of her hair she shook the blossoms and went into the house and her mother washed her face and her mother had an ache in her heart at a rebel voice, â€œI donâ€™t want to.â€
Somebodyâ€™s little girlâ€”forty little girls of somebodies splashed in red tights forming horseshoes, arches, pyramidsâ€”forty little show girls, ponies, squabs. How easy a sob story over who she once was and who she is nowâ€”and how the crabapple blossoms fell on her dark hair in June.
Let the lights of Broadway spangle and splatterâ€”and the taxis hustle the crowds away when the show is over and the street goes dark. Let the girls wash off the paint and go for their midnight sandwichesâ€”let â€™em dream in the morning sun, late in the morning, long after the morning papers and the milk wagonsâ€” Let â€™em dream long as they want to â€¦ of June somewhere on the Erie line â€¦ and crabapple blossoms.