JETHRO TULL - Aqualung

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Sitting on a park bench --<br>Eyeing ittle girls with bad intent.<br>Snot running down his nose --<br>Greasy fingers smearing shabby clothes.<br>Drying in the cold sun --<br>Watching as the frilly panties run.<br>Feeling like a dead duck --<br>Spitting out pieces of his broken luck.<br>Sun streaking cold --<br>An old man wandering lonely.<br>Taking time<br>The only way he knows.<br>Leg hurting bad,<br>As he bends to pick a dog-end --<br>He goes down to the bog<br>And warms his feet.<br><br>Feeling alone --<br>The army's up the rode<br>Salvation à la mode and<br>A cup of tea.<br>Aqualung my friend --<br>Don't start away uneasy<br>You poor old sod, you see, it's only me.<br>Do you still remember<br>December's foggy freeze --<br>When the ice that<br>Clings on to your beard is<br>Screaming agony.<br>And you snatch your rattling last breaths<br>With deep-sea-diver sounds,<br>And the flowers bloom like<br>Madness in the spring.

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