Paul SimonOld Friends

Old friends, old friends sat on their parkbench like bookends A newspaper blowinґ through the grass Falls on the round toes of the high shoes of the old friends Old friends, winter companions, the old men Lost in their overcoats, waiting for the sun The sounds of the city sifting through trees Settles like dust on the shoulders of the old friends Can you imagine us years from today, sharing a parkbench quietly How terribly strange to be seventy Old friends, memory brushes the same years, silently sharing the same fears
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