Tank, my friend

Old friends, old friends sat on their parkbench like bookends

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A newspaper blowin’ through the grass

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Falls on the round toes of the high shoes of the old friends

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Old friends, winter companions, the old men

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Lost in their overcoats, waiting for the sun

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The sounds of the city sifting through trees

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Settles like dust on the shoulders of the old friends

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Can you imagine us years from today, sharing a parkbench quietly

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How terribly strange to be seventy

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Old friends, memory brushes the same years, silently sharing the same fears

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Old Friends.  Lyrics by Paul Simon

Thanks to Nancy Gallimore for the group shot at Tails you Win Farm.

2 thoughts on “Tank, my friend

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