AQUALUNG
Jethro Tull


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 \`a 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.