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.