Your Toes

Oh thou withered stumps, your coronets have dulled,

Grown thick and opaque as auroch's horn.

Bristles sprout as from a sow's snout,

In your wrinkled, mottled hides.

I will spare thee the indignity of the flip-flop,

And swathe thee in finest cotton and leather,

Lest folk take fright at your hideous deformities.

The End

39 comments about this poem Feed