Stopping by a Foot for Lunch
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Whose foot is that I think I know.
His shoe is someplace elsewhere though; He will not see me sneaking near To pass right by his bulbous toe. My little mitts are in the clear To stop right by his glass of beer Between the sandwich and the cake The guy left out just sitting here. It’s just my luck he made a Shake, But didn’t drink it, his mistake. I’ll wolf the lot without a peep, The cake is topped with snowy flakes. His feet ain’t lovely, and reek deep, But I downed food I mean to keep, And will not heave before I sleep, And will not heave before I sleep. © 2022 Les Hartbourne Leave a tip for this poet? Guest has chosen to ask for tips. Any donation is made directly to this poet, and is greatly appreciated.
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