I bet you didn’t know that athletic shoes have a poetic streak, did you? Well, neither did I, until I recently purchased a new pair of cleats to replace the sad excuse for shoes that I had been wearing for three years. The old ones did not take abandonment well, as the following poem demonstrates.
Ode on a Frisbee Disc, by Cleats
Ah, happy, happy feet! that cannot shed
Your shoes, nor ever bid the Spring adieu;
And, happy sprinting soles, unwearièd,
where toes are gath’ring mud for ever new;
More happy toes! more happy, happy shoes!
For ever warm and still to be enjoy’d,
For ever wearing, and for ever young;
Fast-breathing human runners far above,
That leaves a heart high-racing and tired,
A soaring Frisbee, and a heaving lung.
Who are these coming to the sacrifice?
To what green altar, O mysterious priest,
Lead’st thou that sole flapping at the skies,
And all synthetic sides with mud stains drest?
What Frisbee lass departs her faithful friends,
What grassy hill with peaceful Reynolds school,
Is emptied of its shoes, this pious morn?
And, Frisbee lass, thy feet for evermore
Will silent be; and not a soul, to tell
Why thou art desolate, can e’er return.
Then again, the best poetry is born from sorrow, so at least the world stands to receive a net benefit from your departure. Rest in peace, dearest Cleats. You died too young.