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.
the only way he knows.
Leg hurting bad,
as he bends to pick a dog end
goes down to a bog to
warm his feet.
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
And you snatch your rattling last breaths
with deep-sea diver sounds,
and the flowers bloom like
madness in the spring.
Who would be a poor man
a beggerman, a thief
if he had a rich man in his hand.
Who would steal the candy
from a laughing baby's mouth
if he could take it from the money man.
goes jumping in again.
She signs no contract
but she always plays the game.
Dines in Hampstead village
on expense accounted gruel,
and the jack knife barber
drops her off at school.
Laughing in the playground
gets no kicks from little boys:
would rather make it with a letching gray.
Or maybe her attention
is drawn by Aqualung,
who watches through the railings as they play.
finds it hard to get along.
She's a poor man's rich girl
and she'll do it for a song.
She's a rich man's stealer
but her favour's good and strong:
She's the Robin Hood of Highgate
helps the poor man get along.
On Preston platform
do your soft shoe shuffle dance.
Brush away the cigarette ash that's
fallen down your pants.
And you sadly wonder
does the nurse treat your old man
the way she should.
She made you tea:
asked for your autograph
what a laugh.
As I did walk by Hampstead fair,
I came upon Mother Goose - so I turned her loose
she was screaming.
And a foreign student said to me
was it really true there are elephants and lions too
in Piccadilly Circus.
Walked down by the bathing pond
to try and catch some sun.
Saw at least a hundred schoolgirls sobbing
into hankerchiefs as one.
I don't believe they knew
I was a schoolboy.
And a bearded lady said to me
if you start your raving and your misbehaving
you'll be sorry.
Then the chicken-fancier came to play
with his long red beard (and his sister's weird:
she drives a lorry).
Laughed down by the putting green
I popped 'em in their holes.
Four and twenty labourers were labouring
digging up their gold.
I don't believe they knew
that I was Long John Silver.
Saw Johnny Scarecrow make his rounds
in his jet black mac (which he won't give back).
stole it from a snow man.
Take you to the cinema
and leave you in a Wimpy Bar
you tell me that we've gone to far
come running up to me.
Make the scene at Cousin Jack's
leave him put the bottles back
mends his glasses that I cracked
well that one's up to me.
Buy a silver cloud to ride
pack the tennis club inside
trouser cuffs hung far too wide
well it was up to me.
Tyres down on your bicicle
your nose feels like an icicle
the yellow fingered smoky girl
is looking up to me.
Well I'm a common working man
with a half of butter bread and jam
and if it pleases me I'll put one one you man
when the copper fades away.
The rainy season comes to pass
the day-glo pirate sinks at last
and if I laughed a bit to fast.
Well it was up to me.
Oh father high in heaven smile down upon your son
whose busy with his money games his women and his gun.
And the unsung Western Hero killed an indian or three
and made his name in Hollywood to set the white man free.
If Jesus saves, well he'd better save himself
from the gory glory seekers who use his name in death.
I saw him in the city and on the mountains of the moon
his cross was rather bloody He could hardly roll his stone.
Well the lush separation enfolds you
and the products of wealth
push you along on the bow wave
of the spiritless undying selves.
And you press on God's waiter your last dime
as he hands you the bill.
And you spin in the slipstream
paddle right out of the mess.
When I was young, they packed me off to school
and taught me how not to play the game.
I didn't mind if they groomed me for success,
or if they said that I was a fool.
So I left there in the morning with their God tucked underneath my arm
their half-asses smiles and the book of rules.
So I asked this God a question and by way of firm reply,
He said I'm not the kind you have to wind up on Sundays.
So to my old headmaster (and to anyone who cares);
before I'm through I'd like to say my prayers
I don't believe you: you got the whole damn thing all wrong
He's not the kind you have to wind up on Sundays.
Well you can excomunicate me on my way to Sunday school
and have all the bishops harmonize these lines
how do you dare tell me that I'm my fathers son
when that was just an accident of Birth.
I'd rather look around me compose a better song
'cos that's the honest measure of my worth.
In your pomp and all your glory you're a poorer man than me,
as you lick the boots of death ...