THE SHOE

THE SHOE

My left shoe ran away
On Tuesday afternoon,
It passed the garden gate
And whistled at the moon.

I shouted, “Come back here!”
It never turned its head,
It jumped upon a bus
And sat upstairs instead.

It was fed up with puddles,
Fed up with my feet,
Fed up walking everywhere
Along the same old street.

The driver asked for money,
The shoe just shook its lace,
Then jumped off near the market
And vanished without trace.

I searched behind the bins,
I looked beneath a van,
A copper said, “Describe it.”
I said, “It’s slightly tan.”

He looked at me quite strangely,
Then wrote it in his book,
“A runaway brown shoe,
With a rather cheeky look.”

At midnight came a knocking,
My shoe was at the door,
It looked a little tired
And flopped upon the floor.

I placed it by its partner
And went upstairs to bed,
But both shoes had disappeared
When I got up instead.