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Aqualung is hitting me with blows from the guitar,
His watery breathing ragged as the percussion from his drums penetrates my  brain like nails.

Then,
What is this?
An acoustic guitar, Anderson, and a gentle bass lays me down,
Easing me down from the sudden hurricane when the old sod starts.

Then the last of the lyrics,
Anderson is begging Aqualung to remember him,
Desperation evident in his voice,
As the old man passes,
Rattling out one last haggard breath.

I 've nothing to do but sit and figure out the wrong parts
of Einstein's ride light theories
like I can't see time slowing
so how could it be
or
try to argue with Socrates who
is hung on my wall framed it's impossible
he always wins
or try to get rich quick
like Frey did with
a Million Little Lies
my next novel
awaiting publication,
about this dentist who underwent heart surgery
with no Anesthetic
Or dipute theories of Freud's
Oedipus Complex
with my gay friend.
who , by the way , had two mothers,
or watch CNN  and listen to
our President
make an *** out of hisself
and make all the other countries
laugh at us,
or clean up the kitchen, hell,
I think I am going to argue with Dostoyevsky
about Jewish states.

Sometimes I feel like my life is this canyon,
with a river in the bottom of it,
And that I'm on a raft,
Paddling along.

And in this canyon,
From my raft,
I can see those who have been my mentors,
Up at the tops of the canyon,
Calling out to me if they see rapids ahead.

So far they've been pretty good about it,
Not saying there haven't been rough patches,
A couple of close calls,
But I'm still in one piece.
I know that up ahead though,
There's whole lotta rough stuff,
And my lookouts aren'tt going to be of much use.
So it'll be just me against whatever's up ahead,
With nothing to rely on but my own wit.
It'll be like the bad 'ol days.

I'm just laying here in bed,
Ian Anderson is explaining to me through my headphones,
Of how alone I could be,
If I made the choice of going my own way,
But that I would find what I am looking for.