As she prepared to go to bed

A ghastly sight filled her with dread.

Her shock, expressed in terms most verbal,

“Ye gods!” she screamed.  “My foot’s all purple!”

“What happened, Mom?” her daughter cried

When that swollen purple blob she spied.

“The butter tub!” Marla shouted.

And saying thus, the culprit outed.

Next day the doctor, of her pain,

Said, “The butter tub must have hit a vein.

Elevate your foot is my advice.

Watch out for red streaks and treat with ice.”

So Marla went home to ease her stress

And followed doc’s orders, more or less.

For Marla’s a woman always on the go;

No butter tub mishap can make her slow.

She gladly observed that no red streaks arose

From her purple-topped ankle to her purple-tipped toes.

For two weeks she hobbled about with a cane

Without her shoes. “Thanks, pesky bane!”

She wore her red slippers ’til the swelling abated.

But–Gasp!–red clashes with purple, fashionistas have stated.

Having told me her story she asked, “Whaddya think?”

I said, “If you must wear purple, complement it with pink.”

My flippant reply didn’t make much impression

But the Butter Tub Incident did prompt this suggestion:

I have an idea I’d like to share

With all you butter packers out there.

To help prevent any more foot-bruising flubs,

Why not install handles on those butter tubs?


© 2011 The Wit’s End Scribbler

This entry was posted in Poetry and tagged , , , , . Bookmark the permalink.

Leave a Reply

Your email address will not be published. Required fields are marked *