Am C G

Am         C            G
Lather was thirty years old today,
     Em        D          C
they took away all of his toys.
    Am          C         G
His mother sent newspaper clippings to him,
          Em                D             C
about his old friends who'd stopped being boys.

          Em         D           F             D
There was Harwitz E. Green, just turned thirty three,
    Am            Em           D
his leather chair waits at the bank.
    Em          D             F           D
And Sargent Dow Jones, twenty seven years old,
Am             Em       D
commanding his very own tank. 

    C            D          Em
But Lather still finds it a nice thing to do,
   C         D           Em
to lie about nude in the sand
        C           D              Em
Drawing pictures of mountains that look like bumps,
    D                          Am    A
and thrashing the air with his hands.  

    A                    G
But wait, oh Lather's productive you know,
   A            G         A
he produces the finest of sound
                             G
Putting drumsticks on either side of his nose,
A            G             A     Am G D  Am G D
snorting the best licks in town; 
    E
but that's all over

Am G D  Am G D

Am         C            G
Lather was thirty years old today,
    Em          D             C
and Lather came foam from his tongue.
   Am           C             G
He looked at me eyes wide and plainly said,
      Em            D         C
is it true that I'm no longer young? (mommy?)

        Em       D        F  D
And the children call him famous,
         Am      Em     D
what the old men call insane
    Em  D             F   D
And sometimes he's so nameless,
        Am     Em          D
that he hardly knows which game to play;
      C
which words to say
 
      C           D          Em
And I should have told him, "no, you're not old." 
      C           D          Em  D             Am
And I should have let him go on, smiling, baby wide.

Am G D  Am G D