All lies and jest, still a man hears what he wants to hear and disregards the rest.
2 thoughts on “Paul Simon”
s.A
The Boxer (‘Live’)
by Paul Simon
I am just a poor boy
Though my story’s seldom told
I have squandered my resistance
For a pocket full of mumbles
Such are promises All lies and jests
Still a man hears what he wants to hear
And disregards the rest
When I left my home and my family
I was no more than a boy
In the company of strangers
In the quiet of the railway station
Running scared
Laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters
Where the ragged people go
Looking for the places
Only they would know
Lie la lie, lie la la la lie la lie, lie la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, la la la la lie
Asking only workman’s wages
I come looking for a job
But I get no offers
Just a come-on from the whores
On Seventh Avenue
I do declare
There were times when I was so lonesome
I took some comfort there
La la la la la la la
Lie la lie, lie la la la lie la lie, lie la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, la la la la lie
Then I’m laying out my winter clothes
And wishing I was gone
Going home
Where the New York City winters
Aren’t bleeding me
Leading me
Going home
In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of every glove that laid him down
Or cut him ’til he cried out
In his anger and his shame
“I am leaving, I am leaving”
But the fighter still remains
Lie la lie, lie la la la lie la lie, lie la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, la la la la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, lie la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, la la la la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, lie la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, la la la la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, lie la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, la la la la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, lie la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, la la la la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, lie la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, la la la la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, lie la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, la la la la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, lie la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, la la la la lie
It’s a still life water color,
Of a now late afternoon,
As the sun shines through the curtained lace
And shadows wash the room.
And we sit and drink our coffee
Couched in our indifference,
Like shells upon the shore
You can hear the ocean roar
In the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs,
The borders of our lives.
And you read your Em’ly Dickinson
And I my Robert Frost
And we note our place with book markers
That measure what we’ve lost
Like a poem poorly written
We are verses out of rhythm
Couplets out of rhyme
In syncopated time (in syncopated time)
And the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs
Are the borders of our lives
Yes, we speak of things that matter
With words that must be said
“Can analysis be worthwhile?”
“Is the theater really dead?”
And how the room is softly faded
And I only kiss your shadow, I cannot feel your hand
You’re a stranger now unto me
Lost in the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs
In the borders of our lives.
The Boxer (‘Live’)
by Paul Simon
I am just a poor boy
Though my story’s seldom told
I have squandered my resistance
For a pocket full of mumbles
Such are promises
All lies and jests
Still a man hears what he wants to hear
And disregards the rest
When I left my home and my family
I was no more than a boy
In the company of strangers
In the quiet of the railway station
Running scared
Laying low, seeking out the poorer quarters
Where the ragged people go
Looking for the places
Only they would know
Lie la lie, lie la la la lie la lie, lie la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, la la la la lie
Asking only workman’s wages
I come looking for a job
But I get no offers
Just a come-on from the whores
On Seventh Avenue
I do declare
There were times when I was so lonesome
I took some comfort there
La la la la la la la
Lie la lie, lie la la la lie la lie, lie la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, la la la la lie
Then I’m laying out my winter clothes
And wishing I was gone
Going home
Where the New York City winters
Aren’t bleeding me
Leading me
Going home
In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of every glove that laid him down
Or cut him ’til he cried out
In his anger and his shame
“I am leaving, I am leaving”
But the fighter still remains
Lie la lie, lie la la la lie la lie, lie la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, la la la la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, lie la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, la la la la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, lie la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, la la la la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, lie la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, la la la la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, lie la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, la la la la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, lie la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, la la la la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, lie la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, la la la la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, lie la lie
Lie la la la lie la lie, la la la la lie
The Dangling Conversation
by Paul Simon
It’s a still life water color,
Of a now late afternoon,
As the sun shines through the curtained lace
And shadows wash the room.
And we sit and drink our coffee
Couched in our indifference,
Like shells upon the shore
You can hear the ocean roar
In the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs,
The borders of our lives.
And you read your Em’ly Dickinson
And I my Robert Frost
And we note our place with book markers
That measure what we’ve lost
Like a poem poorly written
We are verses out of rhythm
Couplets out of rhyme
In syncopated time (in syncopated time)
And the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs
Are the borders of our lives
Yes, we speak of things that matter
With words that must be said
“Can analysis be worthwhile?”
“Is the theater really dead?”
And how the room is softly faded
And I only kiss your shadow, I cannot feel your hand
You’re a stranger now unto me
Lost in the dangling conversation
And the superficial sighs
In the borders of our lives.