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

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 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?