Young Forrest was a handsome boy, who had a funny name.
His parents both were hippies, now all of that has changed.
His father works on Wall Street, and his mother drives too slow.
His grandma lives in Florida, and once a year they go.
Grandpa has a hearing aid, and he keeps on getting fatter.
He hides it in a drawer, you see, 'cause Grandma likes to chatter.
Without it he can't hear a thing. He smiles and combs his hair.
Grandma talks on anyway, she doesn't seem to care.
Flipping through The New York Times
Grandpa hums a tune.
Grandma's always cleaning with her sponges and her broom.
The carpeting is white, you see,
the land where no one walks.
"Forrest please take off your shoes and make sure you wear socks."
Sergeant Grandma charges in with dust buster in hand.
She is one distinguished cleaner. Just like mother only grand.
Grandpa takes them golfing. He's shriveled and he's small.
But holy cow that little man can really smack the ball.
It's rumored that the only time that Grandpa ever spoke,
is once there on the golf course coaching Forrest on his stroke.
After golf they go straight home and Grandma makes them dinner.
She pinches Grandpa's stomach and says he should be thinner.
If I told you Grandpa was in charge you never would have guessed it.
Grandma never makes him meatloaf -- she says he can't digest it.
Sitting in the living room, no shoes and clean white floors,
Grandma reads her poetry and Grandpa softly snores.
Young Forrest is the child of the children of this crowd.
Some day he hopes to be like them, old and bald and proud.
He'd talk away the evening, drinking tea and playing games
He'd visit them in Florida and give his children funny names.