Aqualung

Sitting on a park bench --

Eyeing little 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