Lather

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, 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