For your enjoyment of course! These stamps and prints are the artwork of the unbelievably talented Sharon England
(who by some happy coincidence lives in ENGLAND. . . I do take some delight in these small synchronicities...)
View more personalized gifts from Zazzle.
http://flyingmulestudio.wordpress.com/
I had the great fortune of winning a piece of her talent in a blog contest that I entered.
I wish I could tell you just how neat this piece is, I have it framed in a rustic wood frame. It is a shelf sitter for me, just hanging with some wrought iron candle sticks and our big pendulum clock on the mantle above the fireplace.
*He who has a merry heart, has a continual feast. -Pr. 15:15*
I would like to welcome you to the Etsy home of the Flying Mule. Here you will find joyful art to decorate your life. From grinning foxes to dancing cats, there is sure to be the perfect bit of whimsy for your home. So come on, give your inner child a piece of candy! In case you're wondering, I do take commissions. Please contact me for guidelines.
http://www.etsy.com/shop/whimsyartist
Take a fast trip over, and see what merry heart art looks like! She is just wonderful.
Click into her Zazzle shop, you will be delighted at her whimsy style and likely to find a piece that will suite a spot in your home for some lovely enhancement!
http://www.zazzle.com/whimsyartist
These lyrics just take me right back to the day. 1968.
Wow I have lived a good long time, and how music has served to remind me of that fact, marking the decades and the attudes that I my self tuded, or lived in the company of.
I love this version of the song. I don't know if the lyrics were intended to be a metaphor, but they really speak to me. Maybe it's the music, or Paul Simon's caress of a voice. OR maybe we all hear what we want to hear and disregard the rest.
Simon And Garfunkel — The Boxer
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 ...
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
Lie la lie ...
Now the years are rolling by me,
they are rocking evenly.
I am older than I once was,
but younger than I'll be.
That's not unusual.
No, it isn't strange,
After changes upon changes,
we are more or less the same.
After changes we are more or less the same.
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
Bleeding me, going home
In the clearing stands a boxer
And a fighter by his trade
And he carries the reminders
Of ev'ry glove that layed him down
Or cut him till he cried out
In his anger and his shame
"I am leaving, I am leaving"
But the fighter still remains
Lie la lie ...
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