Luyện nghe bài hát Lather

Lather was thirty old today,
They took all of his toys.
His mother sent newspaper to him,
his friends who had stopped being boys.
There was Howard C. Green, just thirty-three,
His leather waits at the bank.
And Sergeant Dow Jones, twenty-seven old,
his very own tank.
But Lather still it a nice thing to do,
To lie about in the sand,
Drawing pictures of mountains that like bumps
And the air with his hands.

But wait, ol' Lather's you know,
He the finest of sound,
Putting drumsticks on either of his nose,
Snorting the best in town,

But all over...

Lather was years old today
And lather came from his tongue.
He looked at me, wide, and plainly say,
"Is it true I'm no longer young?"
And the children him famous,
the old men call insane.
And sometimes, so nameless,
he hardly knows what game to play,
Which to say.

And I have told him, 'No, you're not old.'
And I should let him go on...smiling...babywide.