Why must every generation think their folks are square?
No matter where their heads are,
they know moms ain't there.
I swore when I was four that I would remember when.
I knew what's wrong with them that I was smaller then.
Determined to remember all the cardinal rules.
That sunshine was legal grounds for cutting school.
And I know I have forgotten maybe one or two.
And I hope I still recall them all before the babies do.
And I know he'll have a question or two.
Like hey, hey, pop,
can I go ride my suit?
Goes 200 miles an hour,
suspended on balloons.
And can I try a drop of this new stuff on my tongue?
And imagine frothing dragons as you sit and wreck your lungs.
And I must be permissive,
understanding of the younger generation.
And I know all I've learned,
my kid assumes.
And all my deepest worries must be his cartoon.
And still I'll try to tell him of the things I've done.
Related to what he can do when he becomes a man.
And still he'll stick his fingers in the fan.
And hey, hey, pop,
my girlfriend's only 13.
She's got her own video phone and she's taking LSD.
And now that we are best friends,
she wants to give up it to me.
Oh, what's the matter, daddy?
How come you're turning green?
Can it be that you can't live up to your dreams?
Why must every generation think their folks are square?
And no matter where their heads are,
they know moms ain't there.
Because I swore when I was.