Some years ago, while I was working on a contract away from home, my shoes gave up on me.  I was desperate to get another pair to go to work in the next day so choice was a bit limited.  I found a pair in a charity shop which seemed to do the job.  Some of the clothes in these shops are from house clearances after a bereavement.  And I could tell that these shoes were from a dead man.  What's more, I could tell what he died of.  His fucking shoes must have killed him - because they nearly killed me.

 

Shopping for designer clothes

I’m really not that touchy

You know the sort of thing I mean

Christian Dior, Gucci.

 

My boutiques are found in town

The shops I have in mind

Are Scope and British Heart Foundation,

Guide Dogs for the Blind.

 

Hidden treasures lie therein

(And you’ll avoid the queues)

There’s books and shirts and trousers -

But best of all there’s shoes.

 

There’s ‘uggins there to choose from

I don’t mean rubbish neither

With leather soles and uppers

That cost less than a fiver.

 

And size of shoe’s no problem

As I rummage round the shelves,

Cos if the shoes are cheap enough

I’ll fit from 8s to 12s!

 

I make my mind up instantly

No need for thinking twice;

I never try them on for size -

I try them on for price.

 

Now some of these are “dead men’s shoes”

(I’m talking literally)

And I’ve an inkling how they died -

Sometimes their shoes kill me.

 

So don’t shell out with loads of dosh

Expel Designer Blues

Exercise some Charity

Step into “Dead Men’s Shoes”.