Yesterday I felt the heat; I had feet of clay. I couldn’t compete. Somebody pulled the rug from under my feet. I was beat. Mincemeat. Don’t want a repeat. But I was discreet, and landed on my feet. I don’t exactly have the world at my feet, but I didn’t meet defeat. I certainly didn’t throw myself at anyone’s feet.
Today I’m more upbeat. I just took a seat, in my stocking feet, put my feet up, took a load off my feet. Ah, that’s neat. All that’s missing is a treat.
Lately I’ve been dragging my feet, actually dead on my feet—ever since my daughter’s fiancé swept her off her feet, and they’ve been getting their feet wet.
One day soon, they’ll be complete. He’ll work so they can eat, and she’ll be his helpmeet. Ain’t love sweet? I hope they don’t get cold feet.
I expect, after their honeymoon retreat at the suite, they’ll dive in with both feet. I think they’ll stand on their own two feet.
Maybe someday I’ll hear the patter of tiny feet! I hope they don’t let the grass grow under their feet. It won’t bother me a bit to have grandkids under my feet. I just hope it’s before I’m carried out feet first and get buried six feet.