What Seems To Be The Trouble? by Raymond Wilson

Cupping his hands behind both ears,
He bawled, ‘What’s that you say?’
‘Which is your good ear – left or right?’
‘The ninth,’ he said. ‘… Of May.’

‘How long,’ I asked, ‘have they been like this?’
He boomed, ‘6 Primrose Hill.’
‘And are they painful?’ ‘Come June,’ he roared,
‘I’ll be eighty, so I will.’

‘There’s wax enough in your ears,’ I joked,
‘To polish a table-top with.’
‘You’re all mixed up,’ he bellowed back,
‘I’m Ron (not Reggie) Smith.’

I scooped the hard wax from his ears,
Then rinsed them sweet and clean.
‘Now, Mr Smith,’ I said, ‘you’ll find them
As good as they’ve ever been.’

‘But you’ve not tested them!’ he said
Softly, with mild surprise.
‘I’ve no complaint about my ears.
I’m troubled with my eyes!’

 

by Raymond Wilson

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