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
<Intelrude>
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
And the old men call him 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