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.