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 Howard C. Green,
just turned thirty-three, His
leather chair waits at the bank And
Sergeant 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 And thrashing the air with
his hands.
But wait, Lather's productive
you know He produces the finest
of sound Putting drumsticks
on either side of his nose Snorting
the best licks in town But that's
all over
Lather was thirty years old today And
Lather came foam from his tongue He
looked at me eyes wide And plainly
said Is it true that I'm no longer
young
And the children call him famous What
the old men call him insane And
sometimes he's so nameless That
he hardly knows Which game to
play Which words to say
And I should have told him
"No, you're not old." And
I should have let him go Smiling
babywide
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Skip Spence¸¦ ´ë½ÅÇÏ¿© µé¾î¿Â µå·¯¸Ó
Spencer DrydenÀÔ´Ï´Ù. ±×´Â ¹êµå
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È¥µ·À» ´Þ·¡ ÁÖ±â À§ÇØ Grace SlickÀÌ ÀÌ °îÀ» ½è´Ù°í ÇÕ´Ï´Ù.
1938³â ´º¿å Å»ýÀÎ Spencer DrydenÀº
1966³âºÎÅÍ 1970³â±îÁö Jefferson
Airplane¿¡¼ µå·¯¸Ó·Î È°µ¿Çߴµ¥
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