MY MISTRESS’S BOOTS
THEY nearly strike me dumb,
And I tremble when they come
Pit-a-pat:
This palpitation means
That these Boots are Geraldine’s—
Think of that!
Oh where did hunter win
So delectable a skin
For her feet?
You lucky little kid,
You perish’d, so you did,
For my sweet!
The faery stitching gleams
On the sides, and in the seams,
And it shows
That the Pixies were the wags
Who tipt these funny tags,
And these toes.
The simpletons who squeeze
Their extremities to please
Mandarins,
Would positively flinch
From venturing to pinch
What soles to charm an elf!
Had Crusoe, sick of self,
Chanced to view
One printed near the tide,
Oh how hard he would have tried
For the two!
For Gerry’s debonair,
And innocent and fair
As a rose:
She’s an angel in a frock,
With a fascinating cock
To her nose.
Cinderella’s lefts and rights
To Geraldine’s were frights;
And, I trow,
The damsel, deftly shod,
Has dutifully trod
Until now.
Come, Gerry, since it suits
Such a pretty Puss (in Boots)
These to don,
Set this dainty hand awhile
On my shoulder, dear, and I’ll
Put them on.
Frederick Locker-Lampson.