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 lung 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 a 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.
