At the Opticians


I’m sat here in this X-men chair. I’m getting old, and so’s my sight.
Time was when I could read that chart, right down and through the copyright.
But now I’ve read the table by mistake. “An haitch? A big one, right?”
I’ve got so old that all the former, ugly, bright red, chunky frames,
That nobody would ever wear, have now got brand designer names.
They’re thirteen times as costly too, despite the fact they look the same.
I’m might be old, but I’m not dim,
I’ll take the ones whose frames are slim.
These days it’s all designer crap. I haven’t worked out what the fuss is.
I’d only wear my specs like that if I was her from On The Buses.*

*By which I mean Olive, sister of Stan,
But I couldn’t quite make her name bloody scan.


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