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