I am safe behind my sunglass
Their shine hides my eyes, which reveals much of myself.
And I wear my sunglass in the darkness
I wear my sunglass where I please.
Nothing can touch me
Because I am safely hidden behind my sunglass

If I renewed my shades
When I entered through the door
Then I would be predictable.
I be who I want to be
Safely hidden behind my sunglass.

I am a magician
I am a Dylan
I am who I want to be
Safely hidden behind my sunglass

I can see everything and yet remain unseen
I don’t need to worry
For I am safely hidden behind my sunglass

Like everything they are more than what they are
Unlike myself, they are my fearless shield.

And I shall remain safely hidden behind my sunglass.

Woke up on the edge of it
the sober morning light
woke up and felt assured of it
but it didn't make it right

So now I paint my eyes so blue
and they colour all my days
all I do is think of you
in the sunglass shade

Woke up with my mind set on
all that's come and gone
are you still listening
to the same old sad, sad songs?

Or does the sun reflect your mood
now you made it out alive?
Do you still need a drink or two
to fall asleep on time?

Woke up on the edge of it
the sober morning light
woke up and felt assured of it
but it didn't make it right

So now I paint my eyes so blue
and they colour all my days
all I do is think of you
in the sunglass shade

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On my usual flight
from Dallas to Boston,
I saw her,
a perfect belle
a white summer dress
red roses in print
Alfred Dunner perhaps?

Lips pouting,vermillion red
delicate nose, dark sun glass
a Gucci, I could see,
scent of Nina Ricci perfume
reached my nose
"Lucky lady", I told myself.

Me in modest clothes
wondered how happy she was,
sure as looks do tell;
diamond ring
perfectly poised,
commuting to work place
has a good job for sure!

On a sudden impulse
glanced at her face,
and was just in time to see
large drops of tears
slide lazily
from behind the dark glasses
roll over the cheeks
and fall on the lap,
and then another
and another.

Yet she sat still
faintest tremor on the lips
I  imagined a volcano
erupting in her heart.

I looked at my faded skirt
and closed my eyes,
wondering, wondering;
joy and sorrow
elusive indeed,
where do they strike
how do they ****?

Never mind the headache, ma'am, I got no time for your wishin that you had another couple hours sweaty spoonin with me
These days I got high time
racing like underline
all the while the future words seem
as if they're repeating
much slower or bleeding
white into the rest of the page
I gotta go ta work

Never mind the simple kiss, the stranger smile, the holy art.

Never mind the needful hand, I hear all the words that you're speaking and I've spent years making them not cut into me.

1.
any colour may be applied to the
night-dress

this city actually has no cart
driven by horses

before a pretty long time the shepherds
had also told adieu

by secret signalling the red-hat addiction
called the pigeons  sitting on the broken sticks
of the antenna to come nearer

on those dead-news the travel-story
keeps awake by whole night

and pours down on eye-lids
clouds
wrapped with cellophane

one day that wave sent
rolling-down-on-the-back hair
to the yellow balcony

those are all ancient drama

in the glow of the back-light you can see
civic humps have grown up on the back
of the birds every day and night

yet
under the dead-stop ceiling fan the dance
of the ****** reel wet with sweat does not fall short

the paper-buckles with the flowers painted on it
gets more and more tight on the air of the throat

velpuris of the evening
offer full enjoyment

2.
the night that comes all walking on the sands of the desert
how much concern does she has about the navigability of the river

when the husk of the water-chestnut is got open
flowing down the waves bursting into a blaze

to that flow is open the motor-car
the wan procession
and all the fishes that want to go upward the wave

so many varieties of floating

if the matter of clouds be let off
the multi-coloured fingers
also have so many infotainments  

if the question of  moveable property is  raised
it is only a suicide-note from my father

and a knot
in the robe of the blue trouser

3.
the trees and creepers of the night
and the plants and herbs of the day
do all of them have the same blood-group

there is much flora
inside the jail-custody also
and in this ruins of the old palace

how much is it justified
to express eagerness about the geography
of one’s character

specially of the trees
of the fishes
or of the humans

it is said
all rivers
flowing through the bodies of the great men
are totally ******

there is also the blank desert
on the silent snow-valley
in the corner of your
lips

4.
on this spine
having a mouth of crocodile
always jump down
the climate    

everyday
the sunglass changes

look at the soil and the sky
no one of them has any body-guard

the open mouth of the light
swallows the grey coin

here the wall becomes more tamed
the wild jasmine comes nearer to the heart
and hums

then ripping open my veins
should i also ***** the blue elocution
accumulated on the ****-pit

after recovery of the flower-mill from fever
the harmonium is being played on  

even introduction with the gas-balloon
has not been done yet

5.
arrangements are being made

the green shirt will gradually
turn reddish

the culverts that have become exhausted
within the travel-format
will get recharged again to sit up straight

and the hawker will get passed the silent-home
shouting with undressed coconuts in hands

from the lap of the stand-still rocking-cradles
of the children-park
the amaltas will say
i’m ready

then to escape the sun-shine
the boy who comes to attend the private tuition
will embrace… oh margosa … its your pierced-heart

you may tell him that the name of the girl
who is eating guava and swinging her legs
sitting on its branch is munni

6.
the horse is running
just above 3 feet of the yellow cornice

his back is full of dreams
or a girl named miss dorothy  

around it is the mid-night
around it is the wind that wants to be printed

and in every corner of its flying
are hundreds of skirts
  
all are of free-size

what may be their market-price
there is no shop-keeper there

in that valley
a shadow is proceeding on

do you know whose shadow it is
he is philip the teacher who gets irritated easily

this time there is no thin cane
in his hand

in the pieces of papers dumped in the waste-box
under his window there is a manuscript eaten up by the worms

there is ‘darling’ there
and ‘yours beloved greta’

in which skirt
a touch of that greta does remain  

is it being searched even today

is it greta or margaret or eliza  
there is no bar if it is dorothy

in whose smell there is no greta
who has no such horse flying just above three feet
of the yellow cornice  

each mid-night fills the fountain pen
with the flow of blue ink

7.
the leaf of jack-fruit is luxuriant
i can’t remember whether i ever notice
the portrait of your face on it  

there are so many words
that are slippery

how much rustic is the dust of the legs
of the young person is known to the road of the city

daubing green on both palms
i call for rain …oh rain ..oh rain

and into that rain i let my wrist-watch float

thus the great rainbow unfolds its wise mirror
on the scaffold of bottle-gourd  

from the bright cloth-end falling down
the odour of detergent

thus the applied mathematics of the diesel
is learnt to a greater extent

8.
behind the change of colour of the swelled wind
the samovar plays no role

though you know it you tear off tears
from your eyes

and the merry biscuits that are kept in the jar
raise a joint demand to serve them
after wrapping with new banana-leaves  

and the funny thing is that no accounts is found out
of the expenditure on the lip-stick that was used
by the fishes in the aquarium  at the time of illness
of the antenna

by the hands of the clock stretching their shanks apart
is it possible to know the actual age of a comb
either it’s costly or cheap  

9.
like the light
like the dark

yet it is full of the sound of steps
again it wakes up on the forest-road  

taking leave from the yellow construction
all the sound of the bamboo-flute
sinks today into the green minerals

it is not moonlight
on the road it is some north-east sadness

he who comes admits his body
with the divine sin

if you are sorry be water for three days now

through out the day and night
there is the paraffin of fire-flies

the blue cough is not from the sky

it may be some tusu-gaan fly off
from the chest of the straight-line
that has been wiped out

10.
i’ve deposited my metallic heart
to the archaeological-store of the wind

and i send rolling this bare eyes towards the fog
frequently

i make the crystal of her hair soft

i can see those crows
whose jaws are not closed

the colour is also
as if it were burst into cotton

can the anchal of danekhali sari swallow the kernel
and water of the blue tooth-brash after opening its husk

i say to the head with earnest request
oh my father keep cool
and look at the rain-pipe inside which
there is all the dances of the peacocks

11.
in the dim light
the predecessors of the dead stars
tell stories

this dhaba
is beside the long bus-root

yet it is still not satisfied
with the shrimps

the tail of the black drongo
hanging from the farakka bridge
is divided

towards the ganga
towards the padma

the gramophone of the mid-noon
continues to sound at the midnight

those who are doing pilgrimage
on the back of tigers

within the lighting zone of their torch
all the nearest of men who get lost
cover their faces

you know very well that the memory-gland of the wind
becomes how much river-minded when it walks through the fire

I think of mom often.
Like when I read anything by Jack London
or Ernest Thompson Seton.

Her memory swirls around me when I see a dead opossum by the roadside
it reminds me of the one we had as kids.
Yes, we had an opossum.
It wasn't a pet as much as it was a wounded soldier,
convalescing in a field hospital close to the front and cared for by Florence Nightingale,
except the field hospital was our carport under a suspended Old Towne wood canoe,
the battle, with a Ford or Chevrolet, on the main road near our house in Connecticut.
Florence was Mom.

She peeks at me around corners in the kitchen when I make fish,
or soup,
because I hated fish as a child.
She made us eat it because it was healthy and the blocks of frozen Turbot were cheap
and she was a single mom at forty two with three hungry mouths to feed.
She tried to make me think it was exotic because it came from Iceland.
I thought Turbot was Icelandic for "more bones in your mouth than you ever thought possible".
Mom was, however, an accomplished homemade souper.

She's by my side as I explain wild things
to other little wild things which hang on my every word.
Words put into my head which make it seem,
to the under four foot set,
that I know everything.
Knowledge put there by her in our yard,
by the lakes of New York, the mountains of West Virginia or deserts of California.
She is in every frog that jumps, whippoorwill that calls or each stalk of Jewel ****,
which is a cure for poison ivy by the way,
that grows near a stream in the woods.

But then today
as my daughter opened the overhead sunglass holder in her car for the first time,
the Subaru she inherited from Mom over a year ago,
and Grandma's sunglasses fell out,
there were no thoughts of lessons learned
or knowledge imparted.
Today,
I just thought of her.

Fallen eyes and wandering leaves
It's a wonder why anybody leaves
Can you help me find my way to nowhere at all?
Can you kiss me up against the tower wall?

Sunglass eyes and sun-dressed skin
A whole city wondering where you've been
Is there anywhere else you'd like to fall in love?
No one here can do it just once

Drink to dream your color queens
Stuck between movie scenes
Where we beg time to just give us a break
And wonder how long this perfect twist takes

Laugh and play and cry and sing
A perfect place perfects all things
Springtime never ends on the Paris streets
Where you can fall in love with everyone you meet

The sweet summer sun shines on me
On a quiet bench in the city park
With my guitar and a softened voice
I write a song about a broken heart
And the way home is lit with sunglass eyes
Reflecting back the summer day
All I see is good and bad
Without much else to do or say

Steam rises from a lakefront balcony
And some react to an inside joke
Some days are meant for misery
But today is meant for calm and hope
And my way home is like a picture frame
With kisses on suntanned cheeks
All I hear is my mother's song  
On a day when the air is sweet  

A patron sells his portrait piece
But he'll paint you for a fee
With a bigger nose and bigger smile
That you can hang up for all to see
And my way home is smooth and still
Like an easy feeling country song
All I know is I am who I am
And you can always ride along

About an hour on the road
And too many left to go
There's a few things still on my mind about something so long ago
Where by the shadow of the smoke
And the feeling of hope
There was story too short to be told

A few feet from the highway line
The trees are as dead as you and I
Put on your sunglass face to cover up those hidden eyes
Whenever it flashes back
It just makes me laugh
To think of how much I cried

Just one more cup of coffee for the road
So I can make it back to my home
Back to that cabin on the lake swallowed up by the undertow
And the shop is closed
No one knows
Where true love goes before it dies on the road

Other worlds have hopes,
for plants, for trees and
dogs walking by, panting
soaking in humidity like carp
above water.
Not ours.
Dead ends, parked cars supplanting
serenity with passion, desire
crammed into
row upon row of heartless
dwellings expunging sunglass-wearing
**** suckers
blocking their emptiness from the world
with reverse blindfolds.
I know their eyes still glare at me, scoffing at
them. Walking, I
walk past
their barricaded kennels, under-
construction housing
impersonating natural climes
with sushi and slushy shops.
People like them have admiss-
able drives, hankering after
freedom; they're indoctrinated
to believe admission is
monthly cable bills
wired in beneath concrete slabs
maintained compliance
through lines painted on grass
where overlords can tell livestock
what to do.
Bus chutes form
hillsides, beside lines of
trees which perfume these
feedlots
we call
cities.
**** oozes below streets
walked on, they stared at me
like cows, watching a ranch-hand
suspicion toward anything
beyond bistro fences.
"What the **** are you looking at,
you filthy animal?
Have you no idea which species your greed
feeds?
Do you know where this ends
for you?
Who's tazing your ***,
who's making you sit there?"
Moo, mooo.
Mooooooooooooooooooo.
Receipts, a cudgel on each table,
more cudgels ring
from pockets
telling them what time it is,
where they're to be.
Sunday's almost over,
back to blocks of houses!
Graze on painted grass,
then die,
but not before you stare at me
with empty eyes,
you pathetic, miserable
creatures.

Stick straight trees line hills, their arrangement phony
less than 5,000 feet in elevation but elevating humanity for over
sixty thousand.

For more than sixty thousand human beings,
think of fish stuck, are stampeded by shiny black
blocks of detonation.
Explosion for extraction, and teeny tiny port-o-potties
sit, enjoying relaxation where an ecosystem once
enjoyed rehabilitation after March.

We Marched on, up a gravel hill where wind
blew but we bolted our boots to the soil.
Sunglass-clad woman concealed her hurt eyes,
but her voice hurt enough to inspire a kind of
throat retching sensation.

***** up that black, ooey-gooey  you old, weathered mountain top.
Explosives like a firm finger shoved down the throat
denote a rock spew; regurgitate and repeat a dozen times over.
Flatten and deform, never to reform
the water-giving, life-renewing, shady shelter, stable
stool, magic majesty of my mountain.

What I take when I go to the beach
A pair of slippers
A bottle of cream
One sunglass
And   a lovely swimsuit
A nice looking umbrella
A basket to put all the food
A beautiful Bag to put   all clothes
That’s what I take when I go to the beach!
By: menu vianga Dias

When you walked out the pub doors
On a sea of tears and last embraces,
The town stood still.
You broke my heart,
Set it back into place
So that I could feel again.

I was amongst the grown men
Turning backs on each other,
Wrangling our hair,
Pacing the floor,
Until we could not hold back
The occasion any longer.

I know when my plane comes
There will be brief handshakes,
Warm, worn smiles
Fastened from the heat
You gave so generously
To a town that grew cold
In your departure.

You taught us that kindness is enough.
Now rejoicing in private sobs,
Return of feeling for someone else.
This town we complained about,
Until you moved each man to song.

French lessons over the ashtray,
Anecdotes and private jokes
As far as the ear could hear.
I remember when the chemicals took over
And you danced in the sunglass shade
Of a darkened room.

Your energy bounced off the walls,
A pink-noise that echoed as I came down,
Nestled on my shoulder, totemic,
As I fought the speed, tried to sleep.
Beer bottles remained, the splintered ends
That serve as proof for last night’s fireworks.

You always made sure we were safe.

Our chance encounter,
Brief moments which collide,
Leaving marks,
Etching names
Onto stone that cannot wear away.
You taught me that sea of strangers
Is not a place to drown,
Just an avenue towards new land.

You could drink all the time
And it would not consume you.
Get stuck on a blue mood
And still leave your slumber,
Wide-eyed and hopeful for balance.

You left us standing in the rain
Our minds a roulette wheel,
Scattering between goodbye and farewell.
I guess I did not understand the stakes
Until you walked out of those pub doors.
I guess I had forgotten what loss meant,
Those years running from the blade of love
That cuts so finely the line
Of grief and glory.

I am bleeding here.
I am not sure when it will stop.
I am feeling again.
Thank you, friend.

Thank you.

Spun out and liaising with The Smiths,
slow death of living, a decay into night-
this incomplete ******, tend to album sleeves,
wearing the dismal heart
as a tablet for communion.

A choreography of chords and isolation,
a steadied high, sleepless eyes of longing
scratch faces in the ceiling print.
Anxious plots of escape,
the paralysis of a song lyric.

Bludgeon of chemicals, the sunglass confidence
of a new summer, a winter spent inside.
There is calm in desperation, missed chords;
imbalance amongst the infrastructure.
We wait for it all to come down.
Reduced to word,
reduced to sound.

.

Words from perforated ceiling tiles squawk
as megaphone filters blare
in crackled sequence
around missing stations
and call letters that aren’t acronyms

I hear these words, but shake my head
I know they are for me,
sent by well wishing advisors
wearing t-shirts imprinted
“I’m with stupid”

(and the arrows point at me)

Still I don’t heed the warnings,
I can’t, for dreams require reaching,
top shelf visions waving with
hope filled coupons
offering no discount for the heart

“Don’t want what you can not have,” they shout
As I continue to climb the frozen escalator,
cleaning my shoes on the bristles,
then checking my appearance in the sunglass
reflection of a mannequin missing one arm

(and I feel happy for this plastic person)

For it has no idea how it feels
to be out of style, yesterday’s sleeves
Worn of worried first impressions,
heart beat delusions and needs
at the end of the line…to check out

and yet, until the time comes for me to “check out”
I will not give up on that dream, regardless of
invisible sales clerks on their eternal breaks,
because I will reach that register and I will ask that question
to which she just might say yes,

(and then who will be wearing the t-shirt)

I am so sorry
If you are unhappy to hear the news
It was too many midnights
It was too many spent alone
I don’t know, maybe I was wrong
Put all the pressure on you
I am very sorry to make it turn out like this
But know that as I fall
So very far
Know that I will be thinking of the thing that made me happiest
I will imagine us driving along the sunny coast in a Porsche- the model you like the most
The road before us looks golden through my sunglass lenses
You throw your head back, laughing at something I said
I would smile with my teeth for once
Your hair would blow around in the wind; it would have to be the convertible of course
The happiest way I could ever feel
Is how happy I would be if you would drive with me
I am so sorry

The first one this week is named Carlos,
he's tall and handsome and twice my age
He's got tan skin with all the hair burned off
his arms from sunlight sand and surf
He likes to call me "*******"

The second one this week is named Charlie,
he's married and chubby and masochistic
He's got a sunglass tan and three different cars
He likes to call me "baby"

The third one this week is named Ryan,
I think
He's tall I'm tall we were in his car our heads bumped
several times
He video taped the entire thing from three different angles
He likes to call me "***** *****"

The stars on the flag started falling off
when Private Walker returned home
to Tennessee after six months of being
in country in Afghanistan.

At Camp Leatherneck on the treadmill
he folded five points to pentagrams,
imagined fireworks nova his welcome back.

The flag rarely flapped in the arid silence
of base camp.  Was MIA everywhere else.

He landed unmet in
Chattanooga on Veterans Day
in time to catch the parade highlights,
which happened two days earlier,
being ignored on the airport monitors  
in the hustle of terminal traffic.

No flags decorated Broad street shops,
no watchers waived the red, white and blue.
Police motorcycles fronted the parade
and patrolled the back in sunglass alert.

Two Vietnam vets shouldering hunting rifles
marched grimly in parade formation followed
by alternating school bands and ROTC cadets.

All two thousand stars dripped down,
faded blue in the rush to show the next ad.
Every which way he looked
the rushing crowd turned his back to him.

He remembered Anousheh, the girl
whose name meant everlasting/immortal.

The child who hugged him,
kissed his forehead when he gave
her a Hershey bar from
his mom’s care package
while patrolling the base perimeter road.

The friend, the daughter, the grandchild
who died in a Taliban wedding bombing,
one week after her seventh birthday,
three days after their embrace.

His heart, his tears, his breath,
his every word was Anousheh.
All was and will be forever Anousheh.

And when he prayed
he prayed like Anousheh,
and on his knees at the airport
he faced her outbound heart
and prayed for a mutilated world.

They only use Latin to scribe what is true,
Every thought that they thought was an epic breakthrough.
Unravel the universe and earn a statue!
(They question their gods and so do you)
But they know more about reality than you.
 
Some bearded Romantics held meetings (sans you)
To compete so politely for highest IQ.
They poured out their hearts and they thought that was new.
(They want revolution the same as you)
But they know more about fighting the system than you.
 
They recite their own words in an unknown venue,
They sunglass their eyes and dress in bleak hue,
They do all the drugs that the world has to do.
(They smoke and want peace and you do too)
Yet they know more about levels of consciousness than you.
 
In thousands of years, there emerged just a few,
Good enough to be published in a book of who’s who,
They died for their art, or a cause, or virtue.
(At least that’s what’s written, it could be untrue)
Still, they know more about everything than you.
 
What makes you think you can borrow their pen?
You’re alive and well, and Now is not Then.
You’ve not been to war; you have rights like the men.
Apply once you’re dead and we’ll let you know then.

my blood cells are
volts of electricity
supercharged
each time the sun comes out

my eyes are too sensitive
for anything brighter than
a mile-deep cave

i regret not getting those fancy
sunglass lens when i last
refreshed my prescription

everything is too much right now
and i really want to take a nap

Tyrent minds beautifully engraved to street sign metal, purified pedals glow to tunnels only angels see.. Try and believe we are what we need when the clouds come swinging in, storms to grins and awakenings of whats new. Sins come with clues when the gas stations empty, lost believer, cross deceiver your mind is full and plenty..Sunglass highway take those fashionists to their old clubs, where girls turn to thugs with tattoos of fiercesome fright, dogs howl at moons baboons turn to, while leather is skin blood tight. volunteers in kitchens where heat is a hundred degrees, ones on knees just to make a cheap buck, beggers cant be givers when sinners are bigger than your orriginal drug bust.. Talented shakespherean, master's invitation given to only those who fit. have you won your prize, one with soft baby eyes your stuck to wordly grips.... Heavenly hips ive yet to find, where one turns boys to men and devils to false ends where captivation leaves your fantasies behind..What signs will one plot? wheres one is to hot to satisfy you every need..You candy you treat how sensual are we these days...How sensual is your memory...........Title- Candy lane... By meself :))))

sunglass and a drink
watching a street-lamp in the dark...
hell...
      that's schizophrenic...
              the light
just splits...
                                     it just splits!
i'm seeing double(s)...
                i must be on acid...
  because this light source is
encompassing (hiding) a twin!
            the laziest of the most
                           skint boston fweaks;
or as i like to call them:
                  the milk-maids
             for the dog dubbed zero...
yeah, this is the part where i growl,
and never ask for applause.
  it was only me, looking at a street-lamp...
and to think... it only took an
      aperitif's worth of brie cheese...
considering... roquefort.... is
the most justifiable joice of joke.

I swear we passed by each other
with blind eyes

Hey boy! It's your sunglass
That tells me, "Helen, you are so marvellous!"
I am not Helen, not at all,
Is it love that makes you to do wrong call?

Hey boy! It's your lips burnt by cigarette,
Like the allied foeces of second world war to target
The German **** camp for destruction,
And to spread in the world love, divine emotion.

Hey boy! It's your fashionable wristwatch
That tells me, "O queen! Come and take my touch.
I move around you as the clock does,
Only a boy in this heart makes me buzz.

A landslide love benumbs the whole universe sorrounding,
Among the rustle of fallen leaves painful past is sounding.
Who has given me a skyful love?
All the time an illusory song is being sung by a dove.

Open Road on my mind
A trail of dust leaving behind
Cigarette in hand puffing smoke
Each letter is words spoken
My sunglass shades and bandana is on
My journey I expect will be long
The Motorcycle is all tuned up
The only thing to do is ride
My itinerary I don’t need to provide
Where I am heading being anywhere I am destined?
It doesn’t matter if is a city or town
But it’s far far away where I want to be bound
I am a Rough Rider being bold
Anything else will be put on hold
It’s just ride
Passing cars, trucks and buses
It’s my past I left behind
However, my journey being anywhere being a new life
My Motorcycle is the key offering a horizon advice
Again, just ride
My journey will go through deserts into the unknown
But throughout, it will be my life shown
I will stop for a bite in a Diner or Café, and take in a drink
If I see a pretty lady, I will certainly wink
In between, I will have time too think
I don’t want to fight to prove my point in a brawl
The opposition will be on a mean crawl
I am a Rough Rider who I call
I am as a Countrymen being tall and establishment for all
Let this Rough Rider introduce you to my world
Travel with me and your heart will swirl
Destination could be permanent in Nashville
Where there’s a way also a will
My Dust of my past is left in the distance
A new life that might not come in a instance
The goodness of relaxation of a new life with refreshing wine
I am also hungry and can’t wait to dine
A tomorrow became a permanent stay
I have travelled going my way
My sunrise has started my day
Rough Rider is ok and doesn’t need any good luck
Life is so sweet, and the bird’s are in their tweet
Rough Rider has truly arrived
But that’s no jive as I arrived safe and alive.

I was going to the south.
As i crossed the mason Dixon line.
I saw in the bright southern sky
a little sled.flying fast as it could.
When I looked down the road.
There it was in a field of grass.
Reindeer all over the place.
A larger fat man in a red hat, sunglass and shorts was standing near.
When i got to Charlotte town. at a motel 6 you could see
Santa claus in the swimming pool.
on the back of the sled parked right near, I saw a sign it read to me
these merry words.
Heading south ya all see you on Christmas day

Guys who wear a certain type of sunglasses
Turn me off
It’s a very specific type
But there seems to be no redemption
Because he’ll always be
The guy in THOSE
Sunglasses
It’s not his fault
And it’s not fair
A sunglass style
Makes me beware
But association
Can’t help but compare