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about this song
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,