The Song of the Prune

Nowadays we often gaze on women over fifty
Without the slightest trace
Of wrinkles on their face.
Doctors go and take their dough
to make them young and nifty.
But doctors I defy
To tell me just why

No matter how young a prune may be,
It's always full of wrinkles.
We may get them on our face;
Prunes get them every place.
Nothing every worries them,
Their life's an open book.
But no matter how young a prune may be,
It has a worried look.

Wrinkles, wrinkles, La la la la la

Every day, in every way,
The world is getting better.
We've even learned to fly.
Days go passing by.
But what about the poor old prune?
His life is only wetter.
No wonder he can't grin
In the awful stew he's in.

No matter how young a prune may be,
It's always full of wrinkles.
Now, we may get them here and there,
But pruneies get 'em everywhere.
Babies fret until they hear a mother's lullaby
But no matter how young a prune may be
you'll never hear it cry.

In the kingdom of the fruits,
The prune is snubbed by others.
And they are not allowed
To mingle with the crowd.
Though they're never on display
with all their highbrow brothers
They never seem to mind.
To this fact they're resigned.

No matter how young a prune may be,
It's always full of wrinkles.
Beauty treatments always fail;
They've tried all to no avail.
Yet other fruits are envious
Because they know real well
No matter how poor a prune may be
Hot water makes it swell.

Peaches and bananas have that skin
you love to touch,
But no matter how fine a prune may be
it don't amount to much.
Prohibition bothers us, but prunes
don't sit and brood.
No matter how young a prune may be,
It's always getting stewed.
No matter how young a prune may be,
It's always full of wrinkles.
Baby prunes look like their dad,
Just not wrinkled quite as bad.
Prunes act very kind, they say,
When sickly people moan.
But no matter how kind a prune may be,
It has a heart of stone.