An epic poem by Kate S.
Courtney-Clarissa Melissa LaRouge
Always wore uncomfortable shoes
Like stilettos with six-inch high heels
Or flip-flops with roller-skate wheels.
It's not that she had to, she was quite wealthy
And she knew painful shoes were not healthy
But beauty is painful, the saying goes
And her beauty came in the form of clothes.
Shoes just happened to be what she liked best.
Her collection was massive, better than the rest.
But she could not get it through her thick head
That her overworked feet might soon be dead
And every day her feet would strain,
But their cries never seemed to reach her brain.
By age eight her shoes grew more bizzare
Until her feet were pushed too far.
As Courtney-Clarissa got home from school,
And once she had kicked off her shoes,
A stench was emitted from their depths:
Her feet had been tortured to death.
Oh, well, she thought. My feet are no more.
But now I can wear those heels I've been waiting for!
Think of all those shoes that I can now wear.
Since my feet have no feeling, they'll be easy to bear!
As new designs filled her small-child head
Of the torture devices she'd strap on her legs,
Her unliving feet began to change
But she was used to the pain, and didn't find it strange.
She limped to her room in her bubble-wrap boots
Then peeled them off and examined her foots.
To her they looked a little green
But she couldn't think of what that could mean.
She went to bed without a care
Dreaming about what she'd soon wear.
But that fateful night, her feet's souls came back
And poised under her sheets, ready to attack.
At eight, she awoke to get ready for school
And to put on her sandals made of gardening tools
But when the time came to get out of bed,
Her feet reared up and pounced at her head.
Narrowly missing her curly locks,
They then went on to destroy all her socks.
Forced from her bed by her own Zombie Feet,
Courtney-Clarissa still couldn't see
What had caused such a terrible thing to occur.
Surely the blame couldn't be placed on her!
The toes pulled her forward, could not be restrained.
A weird mumbling from the heels sounded strangely like, "Brains..."
She fell with a thud on the floor by her bed.
Thoughts of terror filled Courtney's frazzled head.
What would her parents think of her new Zombie Feet?
Would they scream out and run into the streets?
As her feet dragged her to the kitchen door,
She heard a voice she'd never heard before.
"It's just a matter of time till her lesson is learned,"
The voice said, and every word burned.
Courtney-Clarissa now finally understands.
Her whole predicament had been carefully planned!
"Why me?" Courtney screamed, burst into the room.
"Why must I be the one to suffer this doom?!"
Her mother and father gave her feet a look
And in unison they both visibly shook.
The new voice had come from an old man
Who had his very own pair of Zombie Hands.
Before him, on the table, was bacon on a plate
And his hands smothered the food; they ravenously ate.
"You see, Courtney-Clarissa Melissa LaRouge,
What happens when you wear uncomfortable shoes?"
The man asked, then he said, "I wore gloves as a kid.
They were too small and look what they did!"
He gestured to his hands with a nod of his head —
His own sick appendages of the living dead.
Courtney cried, "I want them gone, whatever it takes!"
"Then you must feed them beef and rib-eye steaks."
The man said, "It's the only thing to keep them at bay,
Cuz your Zombie Feet are here to stay."
Courtney cried, pouted, and whined in protest.
But her parents agreed it was for the best.
So now instead of six-inch spiked heels,
She wears slippers made of sausage and veal.
So kids, wear comfortable shoes, whatever you do,
Or you may someday get Zombie Feet, too.
A/N: Okay, brief history. I have this strange tendency to write poetry based on what I'm wearing at the time (like my hat poem, for example). I was wearing these totally awful and tiny shoes on for like five more hours than I should've, and it bruised the skin under my toenails!! I didn't want that to happen to anyone else, so I wrote this! Then I got bored in the middle. This took about two years to write.