A Pome a Day for a Year

Glass and glass and glass and glass,
Trevor Stains lies back upon his bed of villainy
(actually a comfy deck chair he liberated
from Skegness beach)
and basks under the roasting sun.

It is an unusual day here in the UK,
all sun and no clouds or humidity,
and in his fortress of pain
(actually a small town house
on the outskirts of Drayton Basset)
he was enjoying the fruits of the solar system.

Plans of world domination could wait till tomorrow,
for today he was rejuvenating!
With his sun factor 40
(no point being a dictator with sunburn)
and his glass of icecube filled Irn Bru,
he admired his wretched room.

Constructed entirely with evil nails
and rotten to the core steel frames
and malignant panes of glass
and demonic squares of puce carpet
and sinister light yellow rolling blinds
and unholy hinges on his immoral doors
he grinned a devilish grin and
put his satanic sunglasses back on his face.