His life is hum-drum and looks are plain.
Exactly how he likes it as a British spy.
He’ll queue in a shop or visit the bank,
Trailing that man with the crimson glass eye.

His wardrobe has clothes for all occasions.
His dresser stores wigs and moustaches.
He’s extremely suave and sophisticated,
Trailing that girl with fluttering eyelashes.

A master of disguise as man or woman.
Young with a hop or old and not too quick.
He’ll merge seamlessly into the background,
Trailing that man with the gold walking stick.

He’ll stop in a doorway or slip into a shop,
Pretending to be making a purchase.
Then saunter idly out like any customer,
Trailing the chap with a jagged scar on his face.