Copyright 1968 Paul Simon From the Concert in Central Park. 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. On the shoulders, Of the old friends. How terribly strange to be seventy.
Memory brushes the same years, Silently sharing the same fears.
Time it was, and what a time it was, it was. A time of innocence, A time of confidences. Long ago, it must be. I have a photograph. They're all that's left you.