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.