Aqualung



Sitting on a park bench, eyeing little girls with bad intent.
Snot running down his nose, greasy fingers smearing shabby
                                                   clothes,
Hey, Aqualung.
Drying in the cold sun, watching as the frilly panties run,
hey, Aqualung.
Feeling like a dead duck, spitting out pieces of his broken 
                                                       luck,
oh, 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 dogend,
he goes to the bog and warns 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 December's foggy freeze
when the ice that clings on to your beard is screaming agony.
And you snatch your ratteling last breaths with deep sea diver
                                                      sounds,
and the flowers bloom like madness in the spring.