IT had turned surprisingly chilly for the last day of June, and the drizzle falling on the taverns and factories of Milwaukee made you think more of lonely nights in tin-roofed honkytonks on the outskirts of Nashville than of the seasonal celebration known in this ethnic melting pot as Summerfest - a festival of big-name entertainment, rides, polkas, bratwurst and knockwurst on thick rolls, and the beer that made the city famous. The idea of Summerfest seemed to call for hot nights that cooled off only slightly as the sun went down over the lake, steamy kisses, warm bodies sticking to the ferris wheel and each other.

Still, they had come - almost 20,000 of "the working people of America": young couples, families with jittery children, Lavernes and Shirleys and Fonzies grown to fleshy middle-age in doubleknit pantsuits or leisure suits. (The hard rock crowd was at the local stadium freaking out on the "bloodlust" music of Ted Nugent.) They huddled under plastic raincoats and umbrellas on backless benches lined up on flat ground so that only those at the front had a clear view of the covered stage. They were drinking beer in paper cups, waiting.

In that part of the crowd nearest to the chainlink fence which separated the audience from the grassy, now muddy, area around the stage, comments and curious stares focused on the big silver and white bus decorated with three stripes in varying shades of purple and a single butterfly painted on the back. They knew the one who had brought them out on a night like this was in there, and they were waiting.

Bewigged, bejeweled and bespangled in a cloud of white chiffon, she paced up and down in the narrow space between the Formica-topped table and the small, built-in sofa "not nervous, just anxious to get goin'."

Turning to her road manager, Don Warden, she began a statement that ended as a question: "Now, we're in Milwaukee?"

"Yep," the taciturn Warden replied.

"And this is the Summerfest?"

"Yep," Warden chuckled, "and your name is Dolly Parton."

"Are you right sure? You sure it ain't Polly Darton?" She laughed, and her laughter cut the tension like a silver knife.

The name is indeed Dolly Parton, a name that has become, as she puts it, "a household word." In 1973 she ended a successful six-year partnership with Porter Waggoner, the pompadoured glitter king of Nashville, to strike out on her own, establishing herself as "the fastest-rising star in country music." Then two years ago came the move to attract a wider audience, resulting in last year's platinum (million-seller) album "Here You Come Again" and enough publicity to rival Anwar Sadat. When Dolly Parton arrives onstage tonight at the Merriweather Post Pavilion, she arrives as the most visisble singer/songwriter/personality in the business.

Her face and figure have been spread across national magazines from the National Star to Rolling Stone to Us to Good Housekeeping to Esquire. A poster of Dolly dressed in Daisy Mae costume is currently being marketed as competition to Farrah Fawcett-Majors' wet look. Reruns of her syndicated television show "Dolly!" are shown in 95 markets around the country, including Washington's WJLA-TV Channel 7 (Saturday, 7:30 p.m.), and she often turns up elsewhere on the tube: as talk show guest, as subject of an interview on a recent Barbara Walters' ABC special, as co-host of a salute to the Grand Ole Opry's first 50 years. If she isn't a guest on the Tonight Show, her name appears in Johnny Carson's opening monologue almost every night. And there's soon to be more, much more: Parton has just signed a contract to star in three movies for 20th Century Fox, the first of which will be her life story with screenplay by - who else? - Dolly Parton.

Then there's the music. Named Female Vocalist of the Year by the Country Music Association in both 1975 and 1976, Parton has received similar awards from Cash Box, Record World and Billboard magazines. This year she was nominated for two Grammy Awards in both pop and country categories. No one will be surprised if her new album, "Heart-breaker," released in mid-July, makes a second platinum LP.

As singer and songwriter, Parton has received the sincerest form of flattery: pop artists from Patti Smith to Olivia Newton-John to Maria Muldaur to Linda Ronstadt to Emmylou Harris have recorded her songs. Both Harris and Ronstadt have been quoted in the press as saying they've been influenced by Parton; in fact, the three of them have been working together since last year on a much-publicized, but still unfinished, album.

Her fans run the gamut - from country folk to city-slick critics like John Rockwell of The New York Times and Chet Flippo of Rolling Stone to hard rockers like Mick Jagger and the Grateful Dead.

Not exactly your typical C&W audience, but then it is already a truism that there is no typical C&W audience and that the distinctions between country and pop are less and less clear. Still, in Nashville an album sale of 250,000 was considered runaway success until Willie Nelson went outlaw and broke open the crossover market, selling half a million copies of "Red-headed Stranger." Parton was the first well-established female C&W singer to turn something other than her hair to platinum.

Here she comes again, looking better than a body has a right to, and I'm not one bit jealous.

We're sitting, Dolly and I, feet up and shoes off on either end of the built-in daybed in the long,narrow room that is her private compartment, speeding along the Wisconsin highway from Madison to Milwaukee. It's a rather sedate room - not at all what you'd expect in the bus of a country and western singer, most of which are decorated in what could be called Early Korvettes, if Korvettes sold furniture. The daybed is covered in an average-looking red and white fabric, and the full-length mirror on the opposite wall bears a crayoned message: "Take vitamins! Drink water!" On the door to the bathroom is a little green plastic sign that probably came from Woolworth's and says "Judy's Room." (I never do find out why.)

Dolly, on the other hand, is not at all average-looking. I am a little surprised to see that in person she looks younger than her 32 years, softer, and that she is tiny, barely 5 feet. Her face is stunning; flawless skin, big blue eyes, dimples. Not average stunning, though; maybe, just slightly, asymmetrical. Her cheek-bones are wide, her nose is straight but not small, and her mouth is what writers are fond of calling "generous." Then there is the turn-of-the-century body: the oft-remarked-on bust, narrow waist, full hips. There is something circa 1890 in her blond hair and blue eyes and dimples and hourglass figure.

Today she's wearing the omnipresent wig, this one short and bouffant instead of the cascading layers of falls she sometimes wears onstage, and a simple outfit of black slacks and full-Chinese-style top, white and pink flowers on a black background, instead of the familiar skin-tight jumpsuit so heavily encrusted with jewels that, were they real, a Brink's guard would seem called for.

Her new single, "Heartbreaker," is playing on the stereo tape system, and I remark that it's sure to be another crossover hit. "Well," she says thoughtfully, "it's got somethin' a lot of people can relate to . . . a lot of people have broken hearts. There's a lot of purty playboys out there that just love you to leave you." And then she dimples and grins . . . sassily.

Suddenly it occurs to me why it is that this gorgeous creature does not turn my gray eyes to green. If women have a fantasy about Dolly Parton, it is of someone they would choose for a best friend, someone they could sit with over coffee at the kitchen table, talking of clothes and make-up, of families and the men who done them wrong. You know, talking about . . . life.

You can just imagine that Dolly's well, been around, had her heart broken a few times, known plenty of those "purty playboys." Somehow you know she'd understand.

But she hasn't really been around that much. She didn't have many boyfriends in high school and at 18 she met Carl Dean in the Wishy-Washy Laundromat her first day in Nashville and married him two years later. Not much differnt from the way most of us who were girls from small Southern towns courted and married in the '60s. (The winds of the sexual revolution got held up over Baltimore.) When Dolly talks about him, he doesn't sound like the mystery man he's been reported to be, just an average businessman husband. Leaning back against a pillow, hugging her knees, she tells me how he'd always said he didn't mind if she were ever in the movies, just as long as she didn't kiss another man, "which I can kinda understand 'cause if it was him I wouldn't want him kissin' anybody on the mouth." How, when she signed the contract with 20the Century Fox, she told him that there would have to be an actor playing him in the film version of her life because "there's just too much good stuff about you and me," and he "didn't want to talk about it right then." But, she says, laughing in that affectionate, amused way happily married women have when speaking of their husbands, "I said, 'Now, what could it possibly mean kissin' somebody in front of all those cameras? What could you possibly feel? '" Because, after all, "He's the only man I ever want to be married to!"

Still, there are those songs . . . "It's All Wrong, But It's All Right," for instance. And with the way she looks, and the kind of life she leads (on the road all but 12 weeks last year), there must be a lot of attractive men around who are interested in her. "Well, I'm not a flirty-type person . . . and I think people can sense what you project," she says. "Men know I'm not on the make." She wouldn't want to find herself in "a situation, an affair, that could wreck my whole life," but, she says, "There's not a person that ever lived, unless you were a stone wall, that you didn't sometimes meet someone that really moved you." When that happens, though, there's a "mature, sensible" way to handle it, maybe by writing them a song, but not, she thinks, by hiding what you feel. "I could go right up to somebody and say, 'Boy, it's been years since I met anybody that made me feel some of the feelin' that I'm feelin'. I just feel like it would be more wrong for me to dwell on it and fret over it and than it would be for me to tell you how I feel, and I hope you'll take it as a compliment.' Then," and she giggles at the thought, "I'll say, 'Thank you for the inspiration,' 'cause usually I'll go home and write a song about it." Of such stuff are great songs made.

As she talks, the tape deck is playing my favorite of her lost-love songs, one of her earliest hits, "I Will Always Love You," and I wonder if she's ever succumbed to temptation. But of course I don't ask. I recall having read that Linda Ronstadt said of Dolly, "I love the way she uses her sexuality in a non-threatening way." Why, I ask her, with that sexy image, isn't she threatening to other women?

"I always thought I was a little too bizarre to be sexy," she answers with a laugh. "But I do think most women know I have a husband tht I seem to be extremely happy with and that I have no use for theirs. So I can be somebody they can like because, I like to think, of my honest qualities, but also, if they feel the least bit threatened by a man liking me they can always say, 'Well, she's just all paint and powder, you don't even know what's under that wig, she might be a boy for all you know.' It's like a joke, something they can kid their husbands about, or their husbands can kid them about."

Bizarre. A joke. Not merely the average, middle-class woman's fantasy of what she'd like to look like, but an exaggeration of that fantasy, almost a parody of it. Except that it's not that simple.

Despite the jokes, Parton has never made too much - excuse the pun - of her phenomenal chest measurement. She does not wear low-cut gowns nor does she mention it often, and when she does, it's in a somewhat self-mocking way. "I just decided to give up and go along with it," she sas with a shrug.

She did, however, make one veiled reference to her bust during her Madison concert, saying to the audience, "I see a lot of you all brought your binoculars. I know why, you don't fool me - you wanted to see if these wigs was as big as you thought they was."

And driving into the fair-grounds at Milwaukee's Summerfest, she suddenly spied the top of the covered stage where she was to perform - it's shaped in two large mounds, like a woman's bosom. "Look at that!" she exclaimed, laughing exuberantly and pointing out the bus window with an index finger on which was one of the longest fingernails I've ever seen. "They knew I was comin'. Ain't that the funniest thing? I'll take some kiddin' about that tonight."

But she did not mention the roofline in her act.

Her chest is, I believe, though I'm too polite to ask that either, an act of nature. The look, the clothes and hair, Dolly says, are a gimmick, consciously chosen for their attention-getting value. Take the hair, for instance. In the early '60s, when she was about 15, teasing became popular, and the favorite pastime of teenage girls was seeing how big a bouffant they could create. Dolly liked the look; she "enjoyed foolin' with it," and she was still enjoying it when it went out of style and people began to tell her she should go along with the times. "I got to think', and I decided not only would I not let it go, I would make it more extreme. Then the wigs just got to be a handy thing, a handy way to keep that look without having to damage my own hair."

When you ask her why she appeals to such a wide audience, you can tell she's given it a lot of thought by the way she unhesitatingly launches into a list of the reasons. Children like her, she believes, because, "I look like a fairy tale, I look like Cinderella. As a little kid I was always fascinated with people that wore jewelry, long fingernails, big hair, 'cause in a little kid's mind that's the way you're supposed to look, that's glamorous, that's a movie star. They relate to the way I look because it's a fantasy." They also, she says, relate to her name, Dolly because they relate to dolls, and to her "small voice."

The appeal to young adults, she says, is that she is a successful person in their own age group: "They can kinda see theirselves, if they'd done somethin' else, not that they want to be in show business, but they can kinda reflect against me as a fantasy that they live out." Older people "get a kick out of the fact that I wear all these gaudy, outrageous things," but they also "think of me like a daughter . . . I like to think I have qualities that they have tried to raise their own children to have, a sincerity and a honesty and a love for my own family."

Fantasy, fairy tale. She keeps coming back to that again and again. "It's like a little girl playin' grown-up," she says, "and I enjoy it."

There is, of course, the other Dolly Parton, the singer and songwriter of considerable talent, who has written songs like "Light of a Clear Blue Morning," "Coat of Many Colors," "I Will Always Love You," "My Tennessee Mountain Home," "Where Beauty Lives in Memory," "To Daddy," and on and on. And who sings them in a sweet, true soprano of amazing range and depth. Who demands to be taken seriously - and is, in the music world - but with whom "the public," as she herself sometimes cals them, cannot always get past the paint and powder.

To understand both the willingness to be seen as outrageous and bizarre, or at the very least as a fantasy, and the desire to be considered a serious artist, you have to go back, as you do with most of us, to childhood. Back 32 years to east Tennessee to a dirt famer's cabin near Sevierville in the Smoky Mountains where Dolly was born on Jan. 19, 1946, the fourth of Avie and Robert Lee Parton's 12 children.

Sometimes when she talks about it, it sounds like an idyllic childhood, growing up surrounded by so much natural beauty in an "extremely friendly" and very musical family. Though they didn't have much materially - no electricity, indoor plumbing, automobiles - they had love and music. Most of the talent, Parton says, ran in her mother's family.

Her maternal grandfather, Jake Owens, was both a hell-fire-and-brimstone preacher and "a very funny, witty man, a great storyteller," who taught his granddaughter "most of what I know about singin'." In the Church of God where Jake Owens preached, they believed in making a joyful noise unto the Lord. "Anybody who could play anything could bring their instruments to church, and we would sing and sing," Dolly recalls. "And there was just a happiness about it." Her great-grandmother played the mandolin and sang, too, and her mother wrote poems about things that touched her. "A lot of the songs that people sang around there, they thought was traditional folk songs that had been passed on from genertion to generation, it later turned out my great-grandmama had written them,"" she says, stopping for a minute to search for her throat spray. She had laryngitis earlier in the month and had to cancel several concerts in Texas.

Dolly was writing songs by the age of 5 and made her first guitar at 7 out of an old mandolin and two bass guitar strings. At 10, she had been to Nashville with her uncle, Bill Owens, and recorded her first single, "Puppy Love."

The drive and the sense of being special were there from the beginning. "I was born with a God-given talent, something I recognized very, very early and started usin' . . . We were taught that if you have a talent you should exercise it, not hide it under a bushel, as they say." She has been very serious and thoughtful, remembering her early self, but suddenly she looks at me with that kind of mischievous sparkle of self-irony that is a large part of her charm. "Course, I still get under a bushel" - she pauses - "of hair."

But sometimes, when she speaks of those years, she recalls other things, too. In an early Parton songs, "In the Good Old Days (When Times Were Bad)," she wrote: "No amount of money could buy from me the memories that I have of them. No amount of money could pay me to go back and live through it again." There were so many children, so fast, and though they were never really hungry, she says, their diet was meager, lacking in variety. Her favorite song, "Coat of Many Colors," tells of the time her mother made a coat for her out of a collection of scraps, of how proud she was of it, and of how, when she wore it to school, the other children made fun of her for being dressed in rags. It's still a painful memory, and sometimes, when she sings that song onstage, she cries.

There's still some pain, too, that comes from the very fact of being different, and there's a mixture of wistfulness and defiance in her voice still when she talks about it. "I always loved everybody, but I was misunderstood . . . always . . ." she remembers, her gaze drifting out the window, "because I was different than the kids . . . I just couldn't be ordinary, couldn't be content to just do what everybody was doin' 'cause that was the "goin' thing. I just dared to be different." Later she realized that she had always felt like a misfit because, "I did have a talent and I knew I had to do somethin' in life and that I would do it."

The day after she graduated from high school in 1964 she moved to Nashville. She began to sell a few songs; soon she had a recording contract with Monument, and then, in 1967, Porter Waggoner hired her to replace this girl singer, Norma Jean, and helped her get a contract with RCA. Down on Music Row . . . If you want to be a star, that's where you have to go.

Born to fly and eager for the sky, like the captured eagle in "Light of a Clear Blue Morning," Dolly Parton talks about freedom a lot, about not being bound or limited. Having escaped the confining world of the Great Smoky Mountains, she came to feel that Music Row had its limitations, too.

And so, having always wanted more, having always thought big, she left Porter Waggoner's show to form her own act, putting together the Travelin' Family Band, several of whose members were her brothers and sisters and cousins. Her uncle drove the bus. Waggoner was still producing and arranging for her, and she was doing well, one country hit after another. She began the TV show, which turned out to be a disappointment.

In 1976 the time seemed right to make another change, to try to attract a wider audience, the people who were listening to Ronstadt and Harris and Nelson . . . Accordingly, she got a new band (called, appropriately, Gypsy Fever), a new management, a new booking agency, a new public relations firm, a new record promoter.

"This whole thing has been to achieve freedom, total musical freedom," Dolly says, "to where I won't be limited in any way." When she was doing only "hard country," she sometimes, she says, wrote songs that didn't fit. "They'd say, 'You can't put that out, that's too pop or that's too heav, or people would be offended.' I just thought well, why is it, if it's somethin' that comes out of me that I felt inspired to write, that I feel like was a God-given inspiration, why can't I put it where it belongs?" Instead of labeling her either pop or country, she wants people to say, "I don't know what she is - she's just Dolly Parton and her music is her music."

When I suggest that there are some among her fans who fear that the bid to attract the pop audience - with its inclusion of New York and L.A. managers and agents - will cause some essential change, not just in her music, but in her, she looks up sharply, leveling those baby-blue eyes at me. "Change me how ? It won't change me as a person. The difference will be the fact that I'm free to do my work the best way that I know how."

Freedom to do that work has much to do with writing, which is for Dolly Parton as natural as breathing. She is extraordinarily prolific; she has frequently written as many as eight songs in a day, but her record was writing 20 songs in a 24-hour period, 17 of which were recorded by her or someone else. Sometimes she will awaken with an idea in the middle of the night, a dream having suggested a song. Occasionally, the results are funny; the way something which seems inspired in sleep seems ridiculous in the light of day: "One night I dreamed this song, and in my sleep it was just great, a hit record. Then I woke up and I was thinkin' about it, and what it said was, it said, 'If our love was matches, it never would burn.' And I thought, Lord help, I wouldn't write that down!" (Dolly, in fact, doesn't literally write songs. She sings them into a tape recorder and leaves to others the task of writing down the words and notes.)

Occasional ridiculous results aside, songwriting is the thing she takes most seriously, and just as she has never wanted to be bound in any way, she does not intend to limit herself to what she is writing now, looking ahead to books and stories and poems - looking ahead to more of them, really, since she alreay has trunkfuls at home. ("Some of my lyrics are somethin' like poems but they don't have the same magic somehow.") And before the contract was signed to write the screenplay for a movie about her life, she had already begun to write an autobiography. "Of course, there will be a continuation of my life story," she says, slyl, eyes twinkling, "I'll probably write lots of life stories." And at this moment you could believe anything, that the world was flat even, before you'd question that.

So when Dolly Parton says, "I know I've done some of my great work already, as far as the songs I've written in the past, but I don't think what I'm doin' at this particular time is a prime example of what the future holds as far as my writin' . . . Making this change, I don't want anything to get lost in the shuffle, so I'm just doin' what is best suited for the situation," well, you have to believe her. You believe her, not just because she has written some of the most haunting, most beautiful lyrics in country music, but because, if you look at her career so far, you see how she seems to have always known what she could do, to have been laying the groundwork for the next step, to have made exactly the right moves at the right times. Most of us fool ourselves, at least some of the time, but Dolly, a friend once said, "has always had a great detachment about herself."

You believe her, too, when she says that she would give up everything - the concerts, the records, the movies - before she would stop writing, because most people could be taught to sing or to perform, but, "Everybody cannot express the voice of many." Writing allows her to say things for others that they couldn't say for themselves: "I can say things some housewife would love to say and she don't know how to say it or wouldn't have the nerve to say it, but she hears me say it and she'll say, 'Boy, if tht ain't me right down the line! Boy, that's just like she wrote my story!'"

But it helps her, too. "There ain't no way I could go through life and not write. Why, I'd go insane, I guess," she says, shaking her head, unable to imagine. "It would be like goin' hungry; you know, you get hungry and you have to eat or you starve to death, and I would probably starve to death from lack of expression." It makes the pain less, allows you to use the mask of fiction. "What it gives you," she says, "is freedom of emotion."

Suddenly, we're almost in Milwaukee. The Wisconsin farm land has been flashing by, one red barn after another, and I've hardly noticed. She asks me if I have everything I need from the interview, and I say yes, although I think I could go on and on, livin gout my fantasy, sitting across from Dolly Parton, talking about life.

Sometimes, like the members of the band are doing today, you spend hours on the highway sitting around the table in the bus listening to the tape of last night's show and reading magazines: People, Music Sheet, The National Lampoon, Penthouse, Flying, Starlog. They are an unusually friendly, courteous group, these six men and one woman, all in their 20s . . . They are an attractive group, too. On stage singer Anita Ball wears a peasant blouse and skirt, the six guys dressed - with beards and/or mustaches and longish hair - in expensive-looking three-piece suits.

They have to spend a lot of time together, and the bus is not spacious, but there don't seem to be any signs of friction. They all sing Dolly's praises. When I ask drummer Michael Bueno if Dolly is as nice as I've always heard, he says, "Maybe nicer."

And she is nice. It's the middle of a 58-city tour, the end of oen three-week stretch before a short break. She's been this route a thousand times before - the interviews, the promotion grimmicks - and she seems to have infinite patience.

The press conference in Milwaukee is in a small trailer behind the stage, furnished with a table and a single green Naugahyde sofa, cramped and stuffy with about 10 or 12 reporters from the local news media, several with microphones jammed up in her face. Someone has iced down a tub of Heinekens. Before they ask any questions, five of the reporters ask for her autographs.

She answers the usual questions thoughtfully and seriously, as though she'd never heard them before, obligingly makes several promotional spots for local radio stations ("Hi, this is Dolly Parton. When I'm in Milwaukee I listen to . . .") with a naturalness that convinces you she is a born actress. She even - I swear it - spends several minutes looking at a photograph album in which a local DJ has collected Instamatic snapshots of C&W singers who've passed through Milwaukee. ("Mmmm . . . there's Hank Jr.," she says, raising her eyebrows and pointing to one of the plastic-covered photograhs. "I ain't seen or heard nothin' about him in a long time.") She doesn't look bored.

Then there's the young woman who has made Dolly a hooked rug - or is making, I should say, since for some reason I don't understand it is being presented unfinished, complete with promotional people orchestrating photographs. It is orange, with Dolly's name worked out in black, and Dolly makes appreciative admiring comments.

Some things have changed, though, since Dolly Parton became a household word. For one thing, she doesn't stay after concerts anymore to sign autographs. She'd like to, she feels the audience deserves it, but there were some incidents where people got hurt and she almost got pulled off the stage. The price of success, or, as Dolly says, "If you want the rainbow, you've got to have the rain."

Police escort her out of town now. Even going out to dinner or a movie can be a problem. She doesn't want to feel trapped or imprisoned, so sometimes, even if special arrangements can't be made for a private room in a restaurant, say, or for special seating in a movie theater, "I will go even if I have to spend the whole time signing autographs. I will go just because I won't let myself think, well, I'm trapped."

Dolly's dressed for the show now, a little anxious, looking for a cough drop, and the artist who designed the opening act, a man and two women called "Dave and Sugar," sing "Higher and Higher," the number that begins Dolly's own show, and a last-minute substitution has to be made.

"Every night on stage I just feel like I've got new friends, it's like a famil reunion," she says of her audiences. "I like to think they're like people I love and know, like part of my family, and I like to think they look at me as part of their family, as somebody they've come to know to where we have to love for each other."

She believes that; for her the intimacy is real, and it is a large part of her success. And I believe her, too, watching her for two nights now give it all she's got, singing each song as if for the first time with an emotion that is genuine, and touching.

Tonight, I'm watching the end of the show from inside the bus parked next to the stage. From there, she seems even smaller than she is - a tiny figure, all platinum hair and white chiffon, caught in an eerie glow of bright lights and fog.

I'm thinking that, for all her grit, there's something very vulnerable about Dolly Parton, something that makes you want to protect her. Then I remeber something she told me: "I'll always keep a little corner of myself to myself, a little secret place. There's a part of me that's mine, and that's the part of me, I guess, that keeps me solid . . . because if I ever should need to resort to that, well, I have an extra supply of some things there I could draw on."

Her voice trails off on the last notes of "Here You Come Again," and as she raises her arms to the audience, they rise, too, almost in one movement, cheering and clapping. Some of them will stay a full five minutes after she leaves the stage - long after the decision is made not to do an encore because of the effects of the damp air on her voice - chanting again and again, "We want Dolly! We want Dolly!

They say she's a star, that she's special, like she always said she was, like she always wanted to be.