Not the poem’s shoes
This poem flaunts no dainty slippers
This poem never warms itself in ugg boots
This poem does not work in steel-caps
This poem can’t totter in stilettos
This poem has not embarrassed in sandals and socks
This poem slaps with no Brazilian thongs
This poem dances in red shoon (but only in dreams)
This poem won’t stomp in black Docs
This poem wears no shoes at all.
But it does go wee wee wee
all through the town.
P.S. Cottier
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| the poem likes this though |
