Old friends, old friends
Sat on their park bench like bookends
A newspaper blown though 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 is sifting through trees
Settle like dust on the shoulders 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