Sitting on the park bench —
eyeing little girls with bad intent.
Snot is running down his nose —
greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes.
Aqualung
Drying in the cold sun —
Watching as the frilly panties run.
Aqualung
Feeling like a dead duck —
spitting out pieces of his broken luck.
Whoa, aqualung
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 road
salvation a la mode and
a cup of tea.
Aqualung my friend —
don’t you start away uneasy
you poor old sod, you see, it’s only me.
Do you still remember
The December’s foggy freeze —
when the ice that
clings on to your beard was
screaming agony.
And you snatch your rattling last breaths
with deep-sea-diver sounds,
and the flowers bloom like
madness in the spring.
