I've learned to my cost that a new pair of shoes
is a snare this poor girl should avoid, even when it
appears a temptation too hard to refuse,
being made by Manolo, Louboutin or Bennett.
I've sprained metatarsals in open-toed sandals;
my first winkle-pickers deformed every toe;
high heels gave me bunions as big as jug handles,
while glow-worms all envy the way my corns glow.
My feet have been bent into varied contortions;
some bits have grown sideways while others turn under.
I now wear thick socks to disguise the distortions,
and even chiropodists goggle in wonder.
I've ruined my feet in the name of high fashion
by following Style to its last, costly letter,
a slave to my erstwhile pedalian passion.
New shoes would be good, but new feet would be better.
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