Why don't you write me?

[Prisoner_Number_Six]

Why Don't You Write Me
Simon & Garfunkel

Why don't you write me
I'm out in the jungle
I'm hungry to hear you.
Send me a card,
I am waiting so hard
To be near you.
(La, la, la)
Why don't you write?
Something is wrong
And I know I got to be there.
Maybe I'm lost,
But I can't make the cost
Of the airfare.
Tell me why
Why
Why
Tell me why
Why
Why

Why don't you write me,
A letter would brighten
My loneliest evening.
Mail it today
If it's only to say
That you're leaving me.
(La, la, la)

Monday morning, sitting in the sun
Hoping and wishing for the mail to come.
Tuesday, never got a word,
Wednesday, Thursday, ain't no sign,
Drank a half a bottle of iodine.
Friday, woe is me
Gonna hang my body from the highest tree.
Why don't you write me?

[LynzM]

1. Call me a geek,

But I love S&G... first music I learned to play on the piano. Now if only I could play guitar...

"I am just a poor boy, though my story's seldom told, I have squandered my existance, for a pocket full of mumbles, such are promises.... All lies and jest, still a man hears what he wants to hear, and disregards the rest."

[Prisoner_Number_Six]

2. Most people don't realize how on the cutting edge they were

or that a good part of their work is becoming relevant all over again today.

[LynzM]

3. Oh, definitely

I mean, some of their stuff is just silly and fun, but some of it is really biting political and social commentary.

Full lyrics to 'The Boxer' (Bob Dylan did this one, too...)

"The Boxer"

I'm just a poor boy
Though my story's seldom told
I have squadered my resistance
For a pocketful of numbles
Such are promises, all lies and jest
Still a man hears what he wants to hear
And disregards the rest.

When I left my home and 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.

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.

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
And cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame
"I am leaving, I am leaving"
But the fighter still remains.