Ode to a Man on Princes Street in a Blue Pinstripe Suit, Wearing a Fedora, Carrying a Mirror

You've got that harried look on your face.
I've seen it a million times before.
It's the look that says,
Please don't judge me.
Yes, I know I look silly.
But my wife ordered this mirror,
This ridiculous-looking mirror,
And if I don't get it home in one piece, she'll kill me.
Yes, I've seen that look before.

You're regretting that you parked your car so far away
To avoid paying the parking meter,
Rather than just coughing up the damn money
So you don't have to look like this.
You know that you look quite the sight,
In your suit of blue and your hat of brown,
And that bloody mirror,
That mirror that doesn't match the d├ęcor in your flat,
And you have no idea what your wife was thinking.

But still, here you are, midday on Princes Street.
Waiting for the green man to beckon you across,
Holding the mirror in two hands.
Part of you wants to drop it,
Shatter it into a thousand pieces,
And show your wife just what you think of that god-awful mirror.
But you don't. You just walk on,
Weary eyes reflecting in the glass,
Across the street towards home.