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Lather was 30 years old today, 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 whoʼd stopped being boys (paper dolls!).
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There was Howard C. Green, just turned 33 -
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His leather chair waits at the bank.
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And Sergeant Dow Jones, 27 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 to lie
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About nude in the sand
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Making pictures of mountains that looked like bumps
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And thrashing the air with his hands.
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But wait, old Lather’s productive, you know -
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- he produces the finest of sounds.
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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 thatʼs all over. (Child!)
Lather was 30 years old today
And Lather came foam from his tongue.
He looked at me, eyes wide, & plainly say,
"Is it true that Iʼm no longer young?" (Mommy?)
And the children call him famous -
What the old men call insane.
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And sometimes he’s so nameless,
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He hardly knows what game to play,
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What words to say.
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And I should have told him, "No, youʼre not old."
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And I should have let him go on-
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- smiling very wide.
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