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 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.