From a prompt about footwear.
The Coming of a Stranger Single Shod
King Pelias, with crimson watery eyes,
Awaits fulfillment of the serpent god
His choking smoke and keening prophesies:
The coming of a stranger single shod.
The foremen and the guardians of gears
Whose call and mandate no man understands
Kowtow before inevitable fears:
The workers with their sabots in their hands.
And now the blue-veined, monocled cliches
Set down imagined crystal champaign glasses,
And probably a crimson watery gaze
Direct at us impoverished barefoot masses.
Within my mind I’m certain that they all
Are asking: Pelias: and did he fall?