Irish Shoes

Irish Shoes

There was this Irishman, you see,

who lied a bit; or you might say,

slipped off the truth when relating a tale,

as was his custom, particularly about

his great skills as the lover of his wife;

and how she waited anxiously each night

as he undressed – and how he would

sit along the edge of his sagging mattress

untying his shoes, and the lace would

suddenly ball up into a waxy knot;

and all the while his breathless Catherine

would be drumming her fingers along his

backside; him sweating and wrestling

with his shoes; so urgent she was,

and him grunting over his middle body

heft, cursing the villainous shoelace.

He would tell his mates, leaning one elbow

on the pub counter, hoisting a Guinness

stout and wiping his wet jaw with a shirt-sleeve;

he would tell the lads of all his other

conquests with the ladies, and in each

recitation they stood grinning to hear how

ready and rushed the women

of his whole lustful life had been for him to get his

shoes off, as it were, and get on with

the business of the moment – and how

that one shoe and its contrary waxed

lace forever vexed him, and how

the ladies drummed their fingers waiting.

“Wasn’t it the story of his life?” the lads thought.

Photo by Granpic