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
Aqualung
In the shuffling madness
Of the locomotive breath
Runs the all-time loser
Headlong to his death
He fills the piston scraping
Steam breaking on his brow
Old Charlie stole the handle and
The train it won't stop goin
No way to slow down
Walking through forests of palm tree apartments
Scoff at the monkeys who live in their dark tents
Down by the waterhole
Drunk every Friday
Eating their nuts
Saving their raisins for Sunday
Lions and tigers who wait in the meadows
They're fast but they're lazy
And sleep in green meadows
He doesn't shake hands. If you want him to shake your hand, he'll put out his elbow and have you shake that. He's afraid someone will hurt his flutin' hand.
