Sitting on a park bench Eying 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 Goes down to a bog to Warm his feet. Feeling alone The army's up the rode Salvation a 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.
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