Sitting on a park bench
eyeing little girls with bad intent.
Snot is 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 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 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 rattling last breaths
with deep-sea-diver sounds
and the flowers bloom like
madness in the spring.
