SOMEBODYS little girlhow easy to make a sob story over who she was once and who she is now.
Somebodys little girlshe 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 Horses 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, I dont want to.
Somebodys little girlforty little girls of somebodies splashed in red tights forming horseshoes, arches,
pyramidsforty little show girls, ponies, squabs.
How easy a sob story over who she once was and who she is nowand how the crabapple blossoms fell on her dark hair in
Let the lights of Broadway spangle and splatterand 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 sandwicheslet em dream in the morning sun, late in the
morning, long after the morning papers and the milk wagons
Let em dream long as they want to
of June somewhere on the Erie line
and crabapple blossoms.