Pity the poor step-sister those big feet
she'll never stuff in a size-six sonnet,
her flesh so fulsome the slipper seems effete,
unworthy of the labor spent on it.
But try she must, and so she makes a pass,
jams four fat toes in the narrow throat,
the fifth pig smarting, pressed against the glass
(though pain's no stranger—she knows it by rote.)
The other shoe drops—as it is wont to do—
a second foot is squeezed into the vamp.
She stands up straight and takes a stride towards you,
her footfall heavy as a farmgirl's tramp.
The slipper strains against those excess feet.
She hobbles onward—she has a prince to meet.
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Poetry - The Best Poems Ever Wrote
PoetryP-utting words O-n paper to E-xpress in part T-oughts of me R-ight to Y-our heart
