She totters as she trots across the street

On spindly, thin-shin shanks that

Could not dance a dodgy, rocky foxtrot.

This would-be vamp is hobbled

In her shaky, rakish steps

That wobble cock-eyed, knock-kneed,

In her lust for shoe-supremacy.

This dainty demoiselle is held

To be no stately, graceful gazelle

But gawky like a new-born, gauche giraffe

And yet...

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