You gave me gyp those first few walks,
swindled me of comfort, bled my feet with force.
You dug deep.

I called 111,
troubled both sets of neighbours,
rang every hotline asking for a moment, for just one favour.
I eventually crawled to the local sweatshop and asked to see their designs,
for my feet were a pair of hot mess, pressed thin and in a bind.
I waited in line for the manager of the factory,
propped my feet upon foreign furniture,
ate two biscuits, drank a lot of tea.

My nails were unclipped,
my toe manes unkempt,
my blisters had now ballooned,
began to ferment.

Dave (it wasn’t his real name) came in and sighed,
Not another one. Hear me out, boy, I’ll repeat this only maybe twice:
wait for the monsoons, wait for them to wear in,
quality’s earned and only known once the stitching's rubbed thin.
Next time trust when you’re right.

Dave (it wasn’t his real name) gave me my money back and a complimentary soya latte,
tacked on a one way ticket in first class, said
Get out of here, kid, you’re not the last.