-- Red Keds

This is Part III of a series. See Parts I, II, IV, V, & VI. No, really. Those links are meant for clicking. Otherwise, this poem will just be a face-palming mess of rhymes. 

You’d think I’m made for skipping

But really that’s not so

You’d think I’d want to dance and sing

But to that I’d tell you no.

I really hate it when I talk in rhyme

It makes me want to cringe

To melt into embarrassment

And perhaps go on a binge.

I hate it when I make you look

Prepubescent at best

I’d rather you didn’t swing your legs

And put my anger to the test.

I hate your friends who point at me

And tell you that I’m cute

They’d see I’d rather give you blisters

If they were really that astute.

I hate that your toes cramp into me

Stretching and writhing about

Stop complaining that I’m too small on you

When it’s really that you’re too stout.

How dare you complain about my stench

When clearly you’re to blame

Who cares if I don’t ventilate

When your other shoes do the same

You left me on the bathroom floor

For months and months on end

Where my life consisted naked bums

And the taste-less singing of your friend

Stop implying that I’m juvenile

When it’s obvious I’m not

I’m worldly enough to write this poem

And I can rhyme...bergamot.
                                                                             -- Red Keds