Simon & Garfunkel

Old Friends. Old Friends. Sat on their park bench like bookends.
A newspaper blown 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 sunset. The sounds of the city, sifting
through trees, settle like dust on the shoulder of the Old Friends.
Can you imagine us years from today, sharing a park bench quietly?
How terribly strange to be seventy.
Old Friends. Memory brushes the same years. Silently sharing the
same fears.