|
You'll always hear me say Hello Ma'am |
|
Thank you |
|
Good morning |
|
Looking fine |
|
It's all those old folks left here waiting |
|
That leapt my heart into my mind |
|
It's a sad, sad feeling |
|
To still be around |
|
On every sunny Sunday morning |
|
All golden-aged and sittin' in |
|
Comes out to putter in the sunshine |
|
And shuffle through his deck of bein' |
|
It's a sad, sad feeling |
|
To still be around |
|
And it's the same old tired park bench |
|
Nobody's found |
|
Soft wrinkled stories if you listen |
|
About the lazy days back when |
|
Your mom and dad were little babies |
|
And he had friends still livin' then |
|
It's a sad, sad feeling |
|
To still be around |
|
And it's the same old tired park bench |
|
Nobody's found |
|
And there was a tree put there for shading |
|
That they cut down |
|
The fields he loved got turned to highways |
|
From horse to car to plane to moon |
|
Staying well meant that he feels older |
|
Yet none of his kids have the room |
|
It's a sad, sad feeling |
|
To still be around |
|
And it's the same old tired park bench |
|
Nobody's found |
|
There was a tree put there for shading |
|
That they cut down |
|
And his old shoes |
|
Had worn a spot there |
|
From grass to ground |
