Every step that I take makes me scream with impiety,
So I'm putting my feet in the hands of podiatry.
The NHS lot, with their fourteen-week waiting list,
Make my sole trip away to the local sports therapist.
He can't be accused of not knowing his onions —
While I'm still in my shoes, he can tell I have bunions;
And removing my socks leaves the chap in no doubt
I am also a martyr to seasonal gout.
But he's quickly determined what my current plight is:
A nasty attack of plantar fasciitis.
He tells me, "Yer terrible gait and poor posture
"Have buggered yer tissues, and that's gonna cost ya."
"The pain from your heel to the tip of your toes is
"A stressed out and tenderised aponeurosis."
He says he'll abolish my need for narcotics,
By padding my shoes with the proper orthotics.
As proper means pricey, it strikes me as funny —
I might as well pad them with folded-up money;
But I hereby give thanks for reduction of whingery
To the guy who gets rich adding insole to injury.