Aqualung

Sitting on a park bench

eyeing little girls with bad intent.

Snot is 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 ŕ 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.