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Soliloquy (Parts 1 & 2, from Carousel)

Writer(s): Richard Rodgers / Oscar Hammerstein
(From The Columbia Years, 1943-1952, Disc 4)

I wonder what he’ll think of me, I guess he’ll call me the “old man.”
I guess he’ll think I can lick ev’ry other feller’s father, well, I can!
I bet that he’ll turn out to be the spittin’ image of his dad,
But he’ll have more common sense than his puddin-headed father ever had.
I’ll teach him to wrassle and dive through a wave
When we go in the mornin’s for our swim
His mother can teach him the way to behave
But she won’t make a sissy out o’ him. Not him! Not my boy! Not Bill!
My boy Bill, I will see that he is named after me, I will.
My boy, Bill! He’ll be tall and as tough as a tree, will Bill!
Like a tree he’ll grow, with his head held high, and his feet planted firm on the ground
And you won’t see nobody dare to try to boss him or toss him around!
No pot-bellied, baggy-eyed bully’ll boss him around.
I don’t give a damn what he does, as long as he does what he likes!
He can carry a pail, or work on a rail, with a hammer and hammer some spikes!
He can ferry a boat on a river, or peddle a pack on his back,
Or work up and down the streets of a town, with a whip and a horse and a hack.
He can haul a scow along a canal, run a cow around a corral
Or maybe bark for a carousel, of course it takes talent to do that well.
He might be a champ of the heavyweights, or a feller who sells you glue,
Or President of the United States, that’d be all right, too.
His mother would like that, but he wouldn’t be President unless he wanted to be.
Not Bill! My boy, Bill! He’ll be tall and as tough as a tree, he will.
Like a tree he’ll grow, with his head held high, and his feet planted firm on the ground
And you won’t see nobody dare to try to boss him or toss him around!
No flat-footed, flabby-faced, pot-bellied, baggy-eyed bully’ll boss him around
And I’m damned if he’ll marry the boss’ daughter,
A skinny-lipped wench with blood like water
Who’ll give him a peck and call it a kiss
And look in his eyes through a lorgnet
Say, why am I takin’ on like this?
My kid ain’t even been born, yet! I can see him when he’s seventeen or so,
And startin’ to go with a girl. I can give him lots of pointers, very sound
On the way to get ’round any girl, I can tell him …Wait a minute!
Could it be? What the hell! What if he is a girl? Well, what would I do with her?
What could I do for her? A bum with no money!
You can have fun with a son, but you got to be a father to a girl.
She mightn’t be so bad at that, a kid with ribbons in her hair!
A kind o’ neat and petite, little tin-type of her mother! What a pair!
When I have a daughter, I’ll stand around in barrooms, oh how I’ll boast and blow,
Friends will see me coming and empty all the barrooms, through every door they’ll go,
Weary of hearing, day after day, the same old thing that I always say.
My little girl, pink and white, as peaches and cream is she,
My little girl is half again as bright as girls are meant to be!
Dozens of boys pursue her, many a likely lad does what he can to woo her
From her faithful dad. She has a few pink and white young fellers of two and three
But my little girl gets hungry ev’ry night and she comes home to me!
I got to get ready before she comes!
I got to make certain that she won’t be brought up in slums with a lot o’ bums like me
She’s got to be sheltered and bathed and dressed in the best that money can buy!
I never knew how to get money, but I’ll try, by God! I’ll try!
I’ll go out and make it or steal it, or take it or die!

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