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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. |