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 onsmilingbabywide