Bent little Cordwainer, needle in hand,
Wax at the ready, your leather is tanned.
Make me some shoes to fit my big feet,
I’ll drop a shilling so that you might eat.
Give me a sole made of solid white maple,
Something to match my fine kitchen table.
No ash for me it stinks to high heaven,
And keeps me awake till well past eleven.
Two inches thick, not a knot to be seen,
Your hollower to make the fit nice and clean.
No, I want a clog that will certainly flatter,
and land me a husband to help me get fatter.
You make them well to keep the cobbler away,
last me till Wintermas, a fortnight and a day.
Cordwainer, Cordwainer, summon your elves,
to work all the night through in spite of themselves.
You’ll fix me a good one or no shilling for you,
Aye, I’ll fit your head with the sole of that shoe!
© Tina Zabielski 2011-2019