There’s a man in a cool orange T-shirt. 
But the yellow AirWair just don’t match his eyes.
Everybody says he’s trying. “Very trying”. 
But he often sits and cries.
He says he’s only human, and cannot cope with people’s indignation.
He says he’s great at seven/eight. 
It’s five/four that takes all his concentration.

And he’s always looking at the world through a pair of rose tint glasses.
Never doing any wrong or so it seems.
But he won’t walk under ladders on the thirteenth day.
And the cracks in the pavement are like lines of doubt appearing round his eyes.

He stares out of his picture window, 
the perfect cottage garden in the suburbs.
He says he’s got green fingers, which don’t disguise his urge for nicotine.
There’s a mannequin in the summerhouse, called Lucy, 
a remnant from his sister’s old boutique.
He changes her look each Sunday, but recently the conversation’s dulled.

And he’s always looking at the world through a pair of rose tint glasses.
Never seeing any wrong or so it seems.
But he won’t walk under ladders on the thirteenth day.
And the vision in the mirror sees the lines of doubt appearing round his eyes.,

He can’t escape that nagging feeling deep inside.
The gnawing, twisting, vengeful little demons of the past.
Remembering the first time, when he fell in love at sixteen, 
she was underage.
He always knew her father knew and still [bad word] to terms with how they lied.
Her Father said he’d kill him, if he tried again.

Then there’s his favourite rainbow, reflections from his memory, 
a shard of glass from Mother’s chandelier. 
Daddy left for war. They’d always hoped that he’d return,
 but nothing could repair their shattered hearts.

And he’s always looking at the world through a pair of rose tint glasses.
Never seeing any wrong or so it seems.
But he won’t walk under ladders on the thirteenth day.
And the cracks in the mirror see the lines of doubt appearing round his eyes. 
 
He used to love his Sunday League, 
His Mother said “The best defender that she’d ever seen”.
That was before he wiped his boots on her souvenir from Windsor.
The tea towel that she swore she’d never clean.
Always starting conversations, by asking inane questions about his life,
Just as if for a friend.
Never owning up to inadequacies, on his merry-go-round in the garden.
Riding in all weathers to the end.

And still he stares through lifeless eyes, at his world with rose tint glasses.
Denying all the wrong in what he sees.
And the girl he kissed is married now with a family of her own. .
And the cracks in the mirror hide the lines of doubt appearing round his eyes.