Earwax

Earwax

There you are again

On the end of the buds

I remember wat my mother said

That'll grow good spuds

I poke around and get you out

It's such a fiddly chore

I prod offending yellow mess 

I hope I don't have more 

So when your gone and I can hear

It's such a relief to say

That it'll be a month till your back again

And I'll prod you the same way