aqualung

• 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.