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