Aqualung Ian 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 à 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