Sitting on a park bench --
eyeing ittle girls with bad intent
Snot 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 ?  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