Ode to Feet

O my poor soles,
All bruised and blistered,
Sore and smarting,
Flaking, fissured,
From peeling heels
To crowded toes
With dagger-nails
That cut through hose;
Stiletto-sharp
And scrunched together
With hacksaw tips,
They pierce the leather.
No normal shoes
Will fit these feet,
And cramping friction
Swells their meat.
In summer months
They're simmering crocks;
In wintertime--
Two icy blocks.
At least I'm blessed
With stenchless hooves,
Save when I sup
On garlic cloves.