Glasses

Your glasses are all right,
Not if we’re like this;
OK, they’re in my hand,
Feel them? No. Here, silly,
I’m polishing them on your back so they can see,
Oiling the little hinges
So their arms can reach
And clasp your head.

Their eyes will look into yours,
Be kissed asleep by your lashes,
And gummed by lying in bed.

Oh dear, my hat was there too.