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 of pieces of his broken luck
Sun streaking cold
an old man wondering lonely
Taking time the only way knows
Leg hurting bad as he bends to pick a dog-end
he goes down to the bogand warms his feet
Feeling alone
The army is on the road
salvation à la mode and a cup of tea
Aqualung my friend
don´t start away aneasy
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 snath your rattilng last breaths
with deep-sea-diver sounds
and the flowers bloom
like madness in the spring

VOLTAR