Tho' they may display legs to best advantage,

observing the constraints begs the question, 'What's afoot?'

Seems to me I had a bee in my bonnet

about women's proclivities and passion for fashion

when compelled to write this pseudo sonnet.

Some are bonkers barmy as bedbugs, daft, dippy, daffy,

(with) bats in the belfry too,

it's far beyond my reckoning, as I can't fathom,

why they choose to wear the pairs of shoes they do.

With their platforms pumps stilettos wedges,

they're tottering on the edges of insanity,

an exercise in futility, an accident about to happen,

one stumble, a tumble then... a calamity.

Seeing them hobble while their dogs are barking,

these are the words they'd speak, if their feet could talk,

'Cinderella had the right idea, losing her glass slipper,

as oh the pains you put us through when you are wont to walk.

It's no more than torture, a total imposition,

somewhat akin to boots of the Spanish Inquisition.'