Karl's Own Pomes


Here I sit,
the lamp beaming broadly at me
and I'm thinking, what a good picture my boots would make
for a still-life artist.

They wouldn't really;
I'm wearing a huge pair of suede boots,
old and they stink like hell.
I don't think the artist would be able to capture that smell, somehow.

Come to think of it,
I don't think anything would be able to capture that smell.
I really don't know how I can bear to put my feet in these boots,
but my feet don't seem to mind it.
They just slip in there, take a look around,
wiggle an appreciative toe or two
and then relax.

When you think about it, they're probably right;
it must be restful in those dark corners,
those warm musty lurks in the toes of my boots.
A bloke could really settle down in a boot-toe,
smells and all.

After a while, you probably don't notice it any more;
the smells I mean.
I think when I retire I'll be a toe.

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Page last updated 12 July 1999