Behind the desk a little balding man,

With horn rimmed spectacles sat

A middle aged midriff some would say

Yet others would simply call him fat

An oculist by trade the shingle said

Hanging above the weathered door

So all who could not read the sign

Could be treated, or so he would implore

A small and facetious man he was

When it came to the topic of sight

He promised much but cared so little

When it came to restoring day from night

Peering over those nose riding glasses

And again over an imposing inlaid desk

He would talk to the patient quite inanely

Whilst believing himself to be quite picaresque

Alas no one left feeling saved or safe

But merely airy through pockets lighter

To head home tripping over every crack

Swearing and cursing at the useless blighter

© Bernard J Rossi