Lather was thirty years old today, They took away all of his toys. His mother sent newspaper clippings to him, About his old friends who`d stopped being boys. There was Harwitz E. Green, just turned thirty-three, His leather chair waits at the bank. And Seargent Dow Jones, twenty-seven years old, Commanding his very own tank. But Lather still finds it a nice thing to do, To lie about nude in the sand, Drawing pictures of mountains that look like bumps, And thrashing the air with his hands.
But wait, oh Lather`s productive you know, He produces the finest of sound, Putting drumsticks on either side of his nose, Snorting the best licks in town, But that`s all over...
Lather was thirty years old today, And Lather came foam from his tongue. He looked at me eyes wide and plainly said, Is it true that I`m no longer young? And the children call him famous, what the old men call insane, And sometimes he`s so nameless, That he hardly knows which game to play... Which words to say... And I should have told him, "No, you`re not old." And I should have let him go on...smiling...babywide.
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