You’re a middle-class house wife with money to spend,
dragging your husband behind you, his money he’ll lend.
“Just a bit of retail therapy,”
Is the excuse you keep telling me.
You squeeze your feet into sandals galore,
despite them all fitting you’re asking for more!
Black ones, white ones, thick ones, tight ones.
Empty boxes strewn across the shop,
checking codes and sizes, stuffing shoes till I drop.
I come back, seven more stacked in my hands,
you say you don’t like them, and more you demand!
Sparkly and strappy, backless, healed and flat,
cardboard cuts on my fingers from taking them back.
You pick up shoes by the second, they’re in wrong place,
My colleague is beckoned, he straightens at an incredible pace.
You point to a shoe that I brought you before!
I hope you get blisters and your feet become sore.
Back to the store-room for the sixth time I have ran,
but when I come back you now want it in TAN!!!
Opening the box, you rip off the paper,
you turn up your nose, “I’ll think about that one later.”
Pealing shoes off your bunioned walrus flippers,
feet measuring too long cos you don’t use nail-clippers.
“I’m not keen on these, do you have anything else?”
Yes! We’re a shoe-shop, take a look on the shelf!
Next you try a 3,3-and-ahalf, and 4 too,
you say, “This one feels right, but I’ll try on a few.”
You want 7 styles in all three of the sizes?
I go back to find 21 boxes, envisaging your possible demises;
As I climb up a ladder, I imagine you falling; now impaled on a heel,
the police call your husband. He doesn’t see the big deal.
It started as a crack, now there’s a hole in the floor
and you and your shoes quickly start to pour.
You land in ‘Hey Pretzel’s’ deep fat fryer beneath;
The situation was dire,
some soles survived and a few of your teeth.
I re-emerge from the stock-room as a pair of legs beneath a pile of boxes.
“You took your time! I still need to go to Peacock’s!”
I say, I’m sorry, you found something you like?
“I’ll leave it today.”
Your head would look best on a spike.
“it’s just a shame you don’t have this one in grey,
but if I have the time,I’ll order on-line.”
I get paid on commission,
you were my personal mission!
An hour has gone, and you weren’t even nice Miss,
I deem the 8th deadly sin In-de-cisive-ness.
I stuff back all the cardboard and tissues,
It’s not shoes; it’s people who cause all the issues!
Store Assistants it’s time to blow our Shoe Horns in rage!
Should we put up with this for minimum wage?
Let us alter the dynamic of ‘Retail Therapy’,
Now listen to me wail my plea…
A tax should be added to each and every shoe,
so at the end of the day when shop-assistants feel blue…
It can pay for Councillors and Psychiatrists to come to our aid,
the injustices we’ve endured for hours will fade.
We will leave Meadow Hall feeling happy and gay,
knowing middle-class house wives haven’t caused lasting dismay!