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by Judith Mesch

A fact that isn’t often shared:
One’s feet are almost always paired.
This might be noted when they’re bared
Or hopping softly down the stairs
And at the very distal end,
And likely, when inclined,
To bend,
There’s toes in rows
That’s how they pose
And some say that’s just how they grows
In clumps of five, or six, I think,
In shades of brown or beige or pink
Most feet have toes enough to spare
Some, generous beyond compare,
Will when requested, kindly share
A drawback, slight, but gives one pause:
The toes one grows develop flaws
Not covered by the refund clause
Which means that you must fuss and pare
And take with each exquisite care
In short, spend hours crouched on a chair
And though since commonly they’re little,
Not much more than a jot or tittle,
Not half a bite of tasty vittle,
And not quite pedal decoration,
One might assume they’d know their station
In fact one’s toes, though small and sweet
Can be impossible to treat
Untreated, toes will spoil vacation
Aching, ruin concentration
Throbbingly exhaust elation
Suspicion has their depredation
The ruin of more than one great nation
So care most delicately for ‘em
But if you can’t, remove and store ‘em
And likewise for the foot entire
Or suffer consequences, dire...