Funeral Shoes (Stop all the Crocs)

Stop all the Crocs, cut out these foam clogs,
Prevent the feet from wearing these nasty foul dogs,
Silence the pavements from the Crocs’ fearsome slap,
Bring out the dustbin, put your Crocs into that.

Let aeroplanes circle buzzing overhead,
Scribbling on the sky that THE CROC IS DEAD,
Write it in special smoke so the news never fades,
Host parties, bake cakes, throw victory parades.

You were my North, my South, my West and East,
Well, you were my compass for some time, at least,
But those thoughts I packed away inside a box,
From that moment when I saw you wearing Crocs.

But those Crocs aren’t needed now: destroy your pairs;
Melt them all down, read them their last prayers;
Or throw them into the ocean, the lake, the sea,
And then, my barefooted darling, you can come back to me.


Doc Marten boots,
you take me back to my roots,
when you were in cahoots
with both of my foots.

You have style. You have soul
(air cushioned to make you hover),
with optional steel toe-caps
in case there’s a bit of bovver.

Punks, indie kids, construction workers,
have all worn you most effectively,
sure treaders of carpet and concrete
on office and factory floors respectively.

Dependably Manufactured!
Durably Memorable!
Doughtily Multipurposeful!
Diametrical Moccasins!

To me you are the exponent
of the ultimate in utilitarianism.
To persuade me of otherwise
is an act of futilitarianism.