Tinea Pedis
Stealthy blighter, padding on tiny feet,
sly stepping oversteps, toe by toe,
that gorse between dim forests grow
like stubborn beards who should know,
spreading Tinea Pedis in microspores
slakes slack tongue in unjust cause.
Cloak himself in welcome night's
fractured rash and clammy skin,
engorging ever outwards from within,
envious hankering with greasy spin,
marching proud he likes to speak
of Tinea Pedis and aching feet.
Unsightly hives will breed and grow
by lunching long on sweaty flakes,
his pallid snow footing by mistake
in summer’s ruin, in poison snakes.
It’s wrong to scratch but no one looks,
or seeks a cure or consults books.
Parasite lurks in paradise spawned,
picks his toenails, flicks his fingers,
bouncing prick in corn plaster lingers,
talks limb disease and mottled timber,
blow gaudy whistles, hang bell on nipples,
singing Tinea Pedis has us crippled.
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