Cascade of Slovenly Sock
A cascade of slovenly sock
Confronts the footslave’s face,
Totemic of female power
And putting him in his place.
The tip of a brown leather lash
Dangles next to her leg,
Filling his mind with fear
And making him want to beg.
‘Eat this’ her sneaker-toes say!
The slave must quickly obey
Or he’ll feel the sting of that whip
Hanging ominously from her hip.
The aroma of canvas sneaker
Invades his kneeling nose,
And through its rubbery surface
He feels her wiggling toes.
The hem of a summer’s dress
Hovers high above his head,
Reminding him he must look down
Until the day he is dead.
For a footslave may never look up
At his customer’s body above.
To do so, he is unworthy.
The slave shall never know love.
He is but a thing that licks shoes,
A humble head out on the street,
An admirer of feminine footwear,
A servant of female feet.
She walks away in contempt
Impressed by the slave she is not.
But her whip she kindly recoils
And simply leaves him to rot.
