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Sitting on a park bench eyeing little girls with bad intent |
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Snot running down his nose greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes |
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Drying in the cold sun watching as the frilly panties run |
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Feeling like a dead duck spitting out pieces of his broken luck |
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Sun streaking cold an old man wandering lonely |
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Taking time the only way he knows |
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Leg hurting bad, as he bends to pick a dog end |
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Goes down to a bog to warm his feet |
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Feeling alone the army's up the rode |
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Salvation a la mode and a cup of tea |
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Aqualung my friend don't 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 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 |
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And the flowers bloom like madness in the spring |
