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.