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.
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