Sitting on a park bench --
Eyeing ittle 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 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