My toenails are an unattractive
Lot, a sad, objective fact of
Which I’m all too well aware.
It’s why my feet are rarely bare
In places squeamish people lurk
Like public markets, church and work.
They’re not all bad–most folks are fine
With viewing seven, eight or nine,
But pupils cheer in Hades when
A witness wincelessly sees ten,
So he who keeps his dinner down
Shall be rewarded with a crown
To wear upon the Feast of Steve
(That’s two days after Christmas Eve);
If no one’s perfect, he who least
Is winceful headlines at the Feast
Of Stephen’s Stoning–(Drugs are wrong!)—
To lead the festal folk in song:
Good King Winces Less looked out
On the feets of Stephen
Whilst his toe waved round about,
Cruelly twisted, even….