Dorothy’s ruby slippers spoke the way most shoes do.

They cut to the chase.

‘Buy us,’ they said, to the lady on the front row.

‘Go on, you know you want to.’

So the lady in the auction, without hesitation,

laid down $3 million dollars.

Bought the most famous shoes in the world.

 

And then she felt sick.

 

She got them home and put them on.

But they sparkled and sparkled and wouldn’t shut up.

 

‘You spent what on a pair of shoes – are you thick?’

She heard the scarecrow say.

And that wasn’t the tin man, was it: ‘they put years on you, I say.’

The lady couldn’t help it. She knew he had no heart, but

she listened.

She cared

when the lion said she looked so fat, it really made him scared.

 

She kept them on regardless. She felt wild. She felt free.

And as the wicked witch of the west cackled with absolute glee.

She clicked her heels together. One. Two. Three.