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 à 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.