Aqualung - Ian Anderson, Jennie Anderson

    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 road
    salvation la mode and
    a cup of tea.
    Aqualung my friend
    don't you 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.
    Disk

    Marco Giunco
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