Aqualung
Sitting on a park benchEyeing little girls with bad intent.Snot running down his noseGreasy fingers smearing shabby clothes.
Drying in the cold sunWatching as the frilly panties run.Feeling like a dead duckSpitting 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-endHe goes down to the bog and warms his feet.
Feeling alone the army's up the rodesalvation à la mode and a cup of tea.Aqualung my friend don't start away uneasyYou poor old sod, you see, it's only me.
Do you still remember december's foggy freezeWhen 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.