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A comfortable place
you've come to my friend;
where the ceiling fans purr
and the wobbly old men
murmur and stir

As a crowd gathers round
In the bar length mirror;
these are the memories
distant and dear

The ripe old blend
of tobacco and friend;
hangs thick in the air
as the hearts slowly mend

Reliving the days
again and again;
gripping those moments
So they'll never end

The moments, the fragments
the lives long ago;
are polished and gleaming
like lips in the snow

And every old minute
is fondled and treasured;
not missed
not regretted
but greeted and measured

There is no regret
for the passing of time;
every soul that was met
was a step in the climb

It seems like a lot
to be asked on the spot;
are the memories enough
or is that all you've got

But our wobbly old men
are not lost in confusion;
the life that they led
is not an illusion,
but merely an act
with a script
not their choosing


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