Lather

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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 old friends who'd stopped being boys.

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There was Harwitz E. Green, just turned thirty three,
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his leather chair waits at the bank.
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And Sargent 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
Continues after the ad
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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, oh 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 said,
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is it true that I'm no longer young? (mommy?)

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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 which game to play;
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which words to say

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And I should have told him, "no, you're not old."
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And I should have let him go on, smiling, baby wide.

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