The Ninth of Next November

 

 

The Ninth of Next November

I’ll be eighty-four the ninth of next November.
When I grow up what do I want to do?
I think I’ll be a friend and maybe have some,
and some of them, I hope, will be like you.

If I put on my hungry look they’ll feed me.
They’re handy when you need them, I’ve been told.
They’ll let me keep their dog when I am lonesome,
They’ll be there just in case I should grow old.

But, mostly, I just think I’ll stick around here
and do the things that you would want me to,
and maybe on the ninth of next November
sing "Let Me Be Your Salty Dog" to you.

"Let me be your salty dog
or I won’t be your man at all,
honey, let me be your salty dog."