Overs

Why don't we stop fooling ourselves?
The game is over, over, over,
No good times, no bad times,
There's no times at all
Just the New York Times

Sitting on the windowsill
Near the flowers
We might as well be apart
It hardly matters
We sleep separately
And drop a smile passing in the hall
But there's no laughs left 'cause we laughed them all
In a very short time

Time
Is tapping on my forehead
Hanging from my mirror
Rattling the teacups
And I wonder
How long can I delay?

We're just a habit
Like saccharin
And I'm habitually feelin' kinda blue
But each time I try on
The thought of leaving you
I stop:
I stop and think it over

Пол Саймон
"Bookends", 1968