He sits on his park bench, shaded by the branches
Around him the apples lying rotting on the ground
Above him the new ones, just hanging there unblemished
Perfectly unripened, and strictly disallowed
He likes them just a little hard,
Not too juicy, not too large
He likes to pick them off the tree
A bit before they're ready
He went to the doctors, but they couldn't fix him
So he went to the police, asked the mercy of the court
They locked him away there, put a chain around his ankle
Told him there's no mercy, for people of that sort
He sits on his park-bench, as fires burn inside him
Above him the branches just blowing in the wind
Given back his freedom, and forswearing abnormality
He still gets a shiver out of contemplating sin
Around him the apples lying rotting on the ground
Above him the new ones, just hanging there unblemished
Perfectly unripened, and strictly disallowed
He likes them just a little hard,
Not too juicy, not too large
He likes to pick them off the tree
A bit before they're ready
He went to the doctors, but they couldn't fix him
So he went to the police, asked the mercy of the court
They locked him away there, put a chain around his ankle
Told him there's no mercy, for people of that sort
He sits on his park-bench, as fires burn inside him
Above him the branches just blowing in the wind
Given back his freedom, and forswearing abnormality
He still gets a shiver out of contemplating sin