Sitting on a park bench
Eyeing little girls with bad intent.
Snot running down his nose
Greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes.
Drying in the cold sun
Watching as the frilly panties run.
Feeling like a dead duck
Spitting out pieces of his broken luck
Sun streaking cold an old man wandering lonely.
Taking time the only way he knows.
Leg hurting bad, as he bends to pick a dog-end
He goes down to the bog and warms his feet.
Feeling alone the army's up the rode
salvation à la mode and a cup of tea.
Aqualung my friend don't start away uneasy
You poor old sod, you see, it's only me.
Do you still remember december's foggy freeze
When the ice that clings on to your beard is screaming agony.
And you snatch your rattling last breaths with deep-sea-diver sounds,
And the flowers bloom like madness in the spring.