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Noël Coward - What's Going to Happen to the Tots lyrics
Life today is hectic. Our world is running away. Only the wise can recognize The process of decay. All our dialectic Is quite unable to say Whether we’re on the beam or not, Whether we’ll rise supreme or not, Whether this new regime or not Is leading us astray. We all have Frigidaires, radios, Television and movie shows To shield us from the ultimate abyss. We have our daily bread neatly cut, Every modern convenience but The question that confronts us all is this: What’s going to happen to the children When there aren’t any more grown-ups? Having been injected with some rather peculiar glands Darling Mum’s gone platinum And dances to all the rumba bands. The songs that she sings at twilight Would certainly be the highlight For some of those claques that Elsa Maxwell Takes around in yachts. Rockabye, rockabye, rockabye my darlings, Mother requires a few more shots. Does it amuse the tiny mites To see their parents high as kites? What’s, what’s, what’s going to happen to the tots? Life today’s neurotic, a ceaseless battle we wage; Millions are spent to circumvent The march of middle age. The fact that we grab each new narcotic Can only prove in the end Whether our hormones gel or not Whether our cells rebel or not, Whether we’re blown to hell or not, We’ll all be round the bend From taking Benzedrine, Dexamyl, Every possible sleeping pill To knock us out or knock us into shape. We all have shots for this, shots for that, Shots for making us thin or fat, But there’s one problem that we can’t escape. What’s going to happen to the children When there aren’t any more grown-ups? Thanks to plastic surgery and uncle’s abrupt demise, Dear Aunt Rose has changed her nose But doesn’t appear to realize The pleasures that once were heaven Look silly at sixty-seven, And youthful allure you can’t procure In terms of perms and pots. So lullaby, lullaby, lullaby my darlings, Try not to scratch those large red spots, Think of the shock when mummie’s face Is lifted from its proper place, What’s, what’s, what’s going to happen to the tots? What’s going to happen to the children When there aren’t any more grown-ups? It’s bizarre when grandmamma, without getting out of breath Starts to jive at eighty-five and frightens the little ones to death. The police had to send a squad car When daddy got fried on vodka And tied a tweed coat round mummie’s throat In several sailor’s knots. Hushabye, hushabye, hushabye my darlings, Try not to fret and wet your cots. One day you’ll clench your tiny fists And murder your psychiatrists. What’s, what’s, what’s going to happen to the tots? |
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