Youthful allure you can’t procure

Having almost "lost a day" after rolling in at 5.30am from Our Sal's birthday party, then last night spending a third night out on the trot with friends visiting London from "oop North", I have a little bit of catching up to do - not least the fact that yesterday was The Master Noël Coward's birthday, and a tribute seems fitting.

So without further ado, here is the man himself singing a rather pithy number that I certainly have never heard before...

Noël Coward - What's Going to Happen to the Tots

Life today is hectic
Our world is running away
Only the wise can recognize
The process of decay
Unhappily, 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 mummy’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 grandmama, 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 mummy’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?

Brilliance personified.

Sir Noël Peirce Coward (16th December 1899 – 26th March 1973)