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Poem by Katherine Mansfield
Deaf House Agent
That deaf old man With his hand to his ear-- His hand to hi head stood out like a shell, Horny and hollow. He said, ”I can’t hear,” He muttered, ”Don’t shout, I can hear very well!” He mumbled, ”I can’t catch a word; I can’t follow.” Then Jack with a voice like a Protestant bell Roared--”Particulars! Farmhouse! At 10 quid a year!” ”I dunno wot place you are talking about.” Said the deaf old man. Said Jack, ”What the Hell!” But the deaf old man took a pin from his desk, picked a piece of wool the size of a hen’s egg from his ear, had a good look at it, decided in its favour and re- placed it in the aforementioned organ.
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