The Mother lay on her death bed,
Her daughter by her side,
“You can tell a gentleman alone by his shoes,”
“Your father was a fine gentleman,
With fine stitching upon his fine shoes,
Therefore – this is how – your husband you must choose.”
And thus, final wishes imparted, the Mother peacefully died.
Try as she might Jenny could not forget her Mother’s final words,
She found herself distasteful of trainers,
And platforms quite absurd.
So often nearly falling for a roguish piece of ruff,
Yet her love abated when she saw
Upon hells Angel’s boot,
The harsh tamcac’s scuff.
Giving up hope on British shores,
She journeyed far and wide,
Nearly seduced by a soft, supple Italian sole,
Until she noted laces; carelessly tied.
So she carried on forth,
Her feet pounding foreign grounds,
Eyes forever looking down,
Yet flip flopped travellers,
Warts, fungal infections,
Ingrown toe nails and dead skin.
Were all she ever found
Many years passed – her own feet, blistered and sore,
She decided fine Gentleman like her father
Wearing fine shoes with fine stitching, were not any more.
And so sighing again, she said to herself,
“I’m 90, a virgin, soon to be dead”,
“O well ,” she rocked back in her chair, spread wide her legs,
“I’ll just use the shoe horn instead.”