Sunglasses, sunglasses,
Everywhere —
If only I could find
Me a pair.

My nice issue RAF ones,
Perfect for looking
Like a Top Gun —
Or even avoiding
The Hun in the sun.

The cool-looking,
Ex-British Army shades —
Perfect for pretending
You’re going on raids.

Ah, the pair I tried
To nick from my mate Charlie —
The ones that I wear
When I ride on my Harley.

The cheap, plasticky ones,
But not them I fear,
For they are broken,
And catch on my ear.

Bollocks.
The sun’s gone in.