A Public Footlick's Lament

Dank, drab, dirty

Bright lights in the distance

Dark boot in my face.

Musty leather on my lips

Sock above my forehead

This is my lowly, public place.

A female voice:

‘Slave lick boot. Clean!’

Leaves no choice

Arrogant and mean.

Through day and night

The wind does bite

Here high on Hookers’ Hill

And all who use me

And abuse me

Wish me naught but ill.

And rightly so

For I am low

And bound to serve my betters.

A humble head

Immured, unfed

My neck confined in fetters.

So come one and all

Stop by my wall

And have your footwear kissed.

And when you leave

My mouth will grieve

You will be sorely missed.

For I am lonely

Being the only

Footslave in these parts.

And yearn to greet

Many more feet

Before the new day starts.

Here you see me lickshining the dirty boots of a beautiful, young woman in front of her manly husband, and lamenting my pathetic, miserable existence. The first thing I must do, as the bright and intelligent young woman presents her arrogantly outstretched boot to my face, is be grateful; grateful that she has taken the time out of her busy, female schedule to stop by me and afford me, a mere humble head, the inestimable honour of tasting where she has been walking alongside her husband, even though I know her dirty boots will taste vile.

Then, as I dutifully put tongue to female boot, I must admire her female sock – the sock of a goddess; a humble garment which nevertheless is in intimate contact with her holy footskin. Needless to say, I am NOT permitted to look at this superior young woman above the sock, but, thankfully, the heavy iron collar around my slave neck prevents me from looking up that high anyway.

As I listen to her husband laugh mockingly at me from on high I must suck it up, along with his pretty wife’s bootdirt, for he is a much better man than me, being the partner of such a bright and beautiful, young woman. 

Finally, as the happy couple turn to walk away from me, towards the bright lights of the big city, I must lament her boots’ departure, as my pathetic poem explains. For I am nothing but a lonely, lowly humble head – designed to kiss and lick the dirty footwear of my betters, and anxious of spirit whenever my mouth is bereft of boot. Oh how I wish I could follow this bright, young woman to booted heel – the servant of both her and her husband. But instead I must wait for my next customer-mistress or master to come along – and then demonstrate the same footslavish respect towards them, whosoever they are!