Sitting on a park bench eyeing up 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
goes down to a  bog  to  warm his feet.
Feeling alone 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 screaming agony.
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.
Cross-eyed Mary 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.
Cross-eyed Mary 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.
     

Wond'ring aloud how we feel today.
Last night sipped the sunset my hands in her hair.
We are our own saviours as we start both our hearts beating life into each other.
Wond'ring aloud will the years treat us well.
As she floats in the kitchen, I'm tasting the smell of toast as the butter runs.
Then she comes, spilling crumbs on the bed and I shake my head.
And it's only the giving that makes you what you are.
     

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 bicycle 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 too 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 timeless unreasoning
paddle right out of the mess.
     

In the Shuffling madness of the locomotive breath,
runs the all time loser, headlong to his death.
He feels the piston scraping steam breaking on his brow
old Charlie stole the handle and the train won't stop going
no way to slow down.
He sees his children jumping off at stations one by one.
His woman and his best friend in bed and having fun.
Crawling down the corridor on his hands and knees
old Charlie stole the handle and the train won't stop going
no way to slow down.
He hears the silence howling catches angels as they fall.
And the all time winner has got him by the balls.
He picks up Gideon's Bible open at page one
old Charlie stole the handle and the train won't stop going
no way to slow down.
     

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 excommunicate 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.