These are the lyrics of Soliloquy, from the musical, Carousel, about a father dreaming of what his soon-to-be born child will be like: [To listen to the song, click on the sound/music icon on the right, above the photos] 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 turns 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 wrestle 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 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 or toss him around! No pot-bellied, baggy-eyed bully Will boss him around. I don't give a damn what he does As long as he does what he likes! He can sit on his tail Or work on a rail With a hammer, hammering 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 that 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, 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 fat-bottomed, flabby-faced, Pot-bellied, baggy-eyed bully Will boss him around. And I'm damned if he'll marry his boss' daughter A skinny-lipped virgin with blood like water Who'll give him a peck and call it a kiss And look in his eyes through a lorgnette... Hey, why am I talkin' on like this? My kid ain't even been born, yet! I can see him when he's seventeen or so, And startin' in 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? You can have fun with a son But you gotta 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! 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 or three But my little girl Gets hungry ev'ry night and she comes home to me! I-I got to get ready before she comes! Gotta make certain that she Won't be dragged up in slums With a lot o' bums like me She's got to be sheltered And fed 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!