Whenever you meet a pal on the street,
“How are you?” is the first thing you say.
When I run into a pal, is it guy? Is it gal?
“Who are you?” is what paves my way.

My poor eyesight displaces the contour of faces.
So I ask not how but who.
If I lie, may I perish; here’s the secret I cherish
And press to my bosom like glue:

When I’m stumped for a name, I put all the blame
On my eyesight. Now what’s wrong with that?
And if you suspect me of fraud, please protect me
And keep all this under your hat.