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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