<div class="showResultLinks">Lather was thirty years old today, <br />
They took away all of his toys.<br />
His mother sent newspaper clippings to him, <br />
About his friends who had stopped being boys.<br />
There was Harwitz E. Green, just turned thirty-three, <br />
His leather chair waits at the bank.<br />
And Sargent Dow Jones, twenty-seven years old, <br />
Commanding his very own tank.<br />
But Lather still finds it a nice thing to do, <br />
To lie about nude in the sand, <br />
Drawing pictures of mountains that look like bumps<br />
And thrashing the air with his hands.<br />
<br />
But wait, oh Lathers' productive you know, <br />
He produces the finest of sound, <br />
Putting drumsticks on either side of his nose, <br />
Snorting the best licks in town, <br />
<br />
But that's all over... <br />
<br />
Lather was thirty years old today<br />
And lather came foam from his tongue.<br />
He looked at me, eyes wide, and plainly say, <br />
"Is it true that I'm no longer young?"<br />
And the children call him famous, <br />
What the old men call insane.<br />
And sometimes, he's so nameless, <br />
That he hardly knows what game to play, <br />
Which words to say.<br />
<br />
And I should have told him, 'No, you're not old.'<br />
And I should have let him go on... smiling... babywide.</