Stupid Sun

Where are you, you gormless ball of fire?
You golden-gobbed, gilt-fleshed glorified globule;
What in the deuce, if I might enquire,
Is the meaning of this disappearing act you pull?

Like hair off an ageing superstar's head,
Like a hausfrau's frown after a Botox shot,
Like the red of that haircolour that's bled,
You've gone off absurdly and frankly, lost the plot.

Mornings have been gloomy, dull and grey
Afternoons morbidly slow, sluggishly two-tone.
Creep that you are, you've suddenly gone fay,
Sneaking into some hidey-hole, some off-radar zone.

So full of gas(literally and otherwise),you old humbug,
You make promises of bliss that you shamelessly renege.
If only I could trasmogrify your Midas-touched mug,
You'd end with your beatific face beautified with egg.