Here's that story in poem form, from Blue The Shearer:


THE CROSS-EYED BULL

Did I ever tell you blokes about the cross-eyed bull I'd bought?
I couldn't put it in the shows. At least, that's what I thought.
And then I meet this bloke. He says: "I'd like to take a look.
Those eyes aren't bad. Ring up the vet. His number's in the book.

Although I don't have too much faith, I ring him up that day.
I say: "Me bull's got cross-eyes. Can you get out right away?"
So out he comes. He looks. He thinks. Takes this tube of glass.
Walks round to the bull's backside, and shoves it up   
                   that hole just under the tail.

Then he takes a mighty breath. He blows. He puffs. He sucks.
The eyes rotate. They straighten up. The vet says: "Fifty bucks."
'Fifty bloody bucks.' I think. 'Now there's a tidy sum.
Just for half-a-minute's work. Blowing up some piece of glass tubing.'

Still and all, I pay the vet. He's straightened out the eyes.
I take me bull to Sydney Show, and win a major prize.
I cart him round the bush a bit. We're doing well, and then.   
I have to take him home because his eyes are crossed again.

This time, no vet. I know the drill. I'll save meself some dough.
I get me tube, and shove it in, and I begin to blow.
I blow and puff and puff and blow. Still the eyes stay crossed.
I'm forced to ring that bloody vet and mourn the dough I've lost.

And out he comes. A very knowing smile upon his face.
He knows I've tried to fix me bull. I've left the tube in place.
He grasps the tube. Reverses it. Gives one tremendous puff.
I see the eyes rotate again, and straighten, sure enough.

I pay the vet, and say to him: "Look. Just before you go.
Don't tell me the secret's knowing in which end to blow?"
"No mate." He says. "You can blow from North, East, West or South.
But you didn't think I'd use the end, that you've had in your mouth?"

BLUE - the shearer.         (copyright col wilson)