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