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.