Lyrics
the old man sits and waits by his old victrola, his tired hands haven't touched those records since his wife died, many many years ago..
the old man touches spots on a deep red sweater as he ponders a thought he thinks he might have already thought,
many years ago
and he never never never never never never plays his trombone, anymore
and he never never never never never never
calls his son, in new york
and he waits and he waits and he waits and he waits
what is he waiting for?
old man stares calmly through the shutters as he fixes eyes on a shiny silver car almost like the one he used to drive, many years ago
the old man watches clocks and every tick tock speaks the brevity of life..
the hours pass so slow..
and he never never never never never never plays his trombone, any more..
and he never never never never never never
calls his son, in new york..
and he waits and he waits and he waits and he waits, what is he waiting for?
and he cries and he cries, wipes the tears from his eyes, as he stretches his legs he gets up, and quietly closes the door.
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