O soft South Terrace of stifling midday,
Shutting, like sunnies of magic design,
Our glare-gumm’d peepers on the vibrant fray,
Semi-shaded, left in listing recline:
Golden brown sun! if so it please thee, close
During Someone Like You my squinty eyes,
Or ‘wait the “Fuck off,” when a cunt not throws
Into my case his meagre charities.
Then save me, or the pissed day will whine
Upon my guitar, breeding the aggros,—
Save me from Havana, and shorts of board
The cry in the darkness: ‘You bloody mole’;
Turn the key deftly in my rusty chords,
A physio booking will be my goal. Pic courtesy The Cott Kid; apologies for any inconvenience to John Keats.