Those rods and cones within our eyes
That pick up light fantastic,
Wear down and lose their points
As age makes less elastic.
We nudge and knock our cups of tea,
And blame our knuckles gnarled,
when all we need is polished glass
For sight to be unsnarled.
Myopic, and astigmatism,
And wide angle field of vision,
Are swept aside and seem as nought,
When, on dedicated mission,
Focus soon is ranged down to spot
By cool opthalmic optician.