Ten bob sounds feasible, John.

In my teens I always waited for the sales and bought two new pairs of shoes every January and July. They used to cost one pound, nine shillings and eleven pence a pair, or, more familiarly to us Oldies, £1 9s. 11d. Tuppence change from three quid, for two pairs!!! Ah, those were the days :D

Jayne

Thank you, Jayne.

New Shoes
(from the ancient Greek)

He said the boys were going for a sail.
Two decades later, turns up at the door.
In all that time he never calls. No mail.
Arrives with flowers. Wonders why I swore.

It turns out he’s been shacked up with Calypso,
turns out he’s been Circe’s “special friend”.
Oh he has class! A witch and then a nymph-o,
(translator: skipping words that might offend)

To think I stayed at home all pure and chaste,
repelling well-hung suitors every night.
So many bronze-skinned men all gone to waste.
I would have had them all, just out of spite.

I sold his treasures, booked myself a cruise.
Then packed my bags, went out and bought new shoes.


--
I don't think L8 works. It's out of keeping with the rest of the poem, I'm working on a fix. I'm a little unhappy/unsure regarding the tense of 'swore', I think it should be historic present, but maybe it does it work as past (I try to convince myself).

New Shoes
 

The bureaucrats of tinkle-town
might well decree the time has come
when all newfangled prosody
must stick to metric feet
or best be shed;

after which we might surmise
that shod is what they really meant
but some old spiteful spellcheck sprite
had intervened to put the boot
in cobblers' hopes of better times
ahead.

Just to agree with Jayne about the cost of shoes.

For the comp. its called New Shoes - but I'll keep it as SALE TIME.


“What am I bid?” the PM huckster cries,
as off-shore funds flit briefly ’cross the room,
from phantom figures flown from non-dom skies
to clutch at power, like some sweaty groom.
Here dressed-down wealth eschews black ties, champagne
and ball-gown glitz, as if the smart set’s suits
were camouflage enough to mask the pain,
lashings of cash exact from those, whose boots
these greedy bidders are not fit to loose.
And well-washed dosh, ’neath table tops, ashamed,
just like some stockinged toe, without excuse,
seeks members insufficiently defamed.
One scooped a May day, buying soles in town;
new shoes or old, it’s heels that grind us down.

John, you old sentimentalist, you!
Nicholas, L15 looks (to me) to be a syllable too long. Can't quite get it to fit the meter.

When the naked Swedish hooker
who, in truth, was quite a looker
walked up and down my spine in new stilettos,
it was so excruciating,
yet supremely liberating;
completely injudicious,
though incredibly delicious,
like when you wolf down two or three Cornettos.

But the joy it generated
sadly was not replicated
when my wife, as in some film of Zeffirelli’s,
threw off pinny, blouse and girdle,
(as the milk began to curdle)
and removed her massive panties
and some other none-too-scanties,
then broke my backbone in her brand new wellies.

New Shoes


I’d bought some shoes a size too small.
My friend was scathing: “How”, said Paul,
“Could you end up with shoes too tight?
When I buy shoes, I get it right!”
He raised his feet, and pointed smugly.
“See?” he smirked, “They fit me snugly.”
“Paul”, I said, “No doubt they’re fine,
But one’s size ten, the other’s nine.”
“Good Lord!” he muttered, “So they are.
Now, how on earth? … That’s most bizarre.”
Incredulous, I stared again.
“What’s more”, I told him, “One is plain,
The other has a stitched design.”
He took a sheepish sip of wine.
“They’re not a pair, I must admit -
But still, they’re both a perfect fit.”

All looks fine to me, Matt, just as it is. And a novel take on the theme!