The Poetry Corner

My Mistress's Boots

By Frederick Locker-Lampson

They nearly strike me dumb, And I tremble when they come Pit-a-pat: This palpitation means These boots are Geraldine's, Think of that! Oh, where did hunter win So delectable a skin For her feet? You lucky little kid, You perished, so you did, For my sweet! The fary stitching gleams On the sides, and in the seams, And it shows The Pixies were the wags Who tipt those funny tags And these toes. What soles to charm an elf! Had Crusoe, sick of self, Chanced to view One printed near the tide, Oh, how hard he would have tried For the two! For Gerry's debonair And innocent, and fair As a rose; She's an angel in a frock, With a fascinating cock To her nose. The simpletons who squeeze Their extremities to please Mandarins, Would positively flinch From venturing to pinch Geraldine's. Cinderella's lefts and rights, To Geraldine's were frights; And I trow, The damsel, deftly shod, Has dutifully trod Until now. Come, Gerry, since it suits Such a pretty Puss (in Boots) These to don; Set this dainty hand awhile On my shoulder, dear, and I'll Put them on.