You cop no chop when you're a thong;
No great deeds done and no great song
Is sung as you flip-flop along,
Just another cheapo thong.
Summer comes and brave and bare
Come feet in thongs fried medium rare
Which leave a token trace en route
That could have come from an old boot,
But boots are cleaned, shoes polished till shiny;
A thong's not right unless it's grimy,
Yet there is no inner compulsion urging
Thongs to play the role of urchin
Though ever in lowly lot we're put
By every hairy toey foot.
Karma, Kismet, or just bad luck,
We're stamped in dust, mud and muck,
But flip-flop-flip, we flop along,
And flip-flop, sing our thin thong song.
A thong strap breaks or just pulls through,
Or one gets lost, so what do you do?
You give a shrug and buy two more:
Oh to be a thong is such a bore.
And those who upon us thongs do tread,
When their toes are scuffed and red,
They blame us thin flat rubbery things.
Blame themselves? Never! They whinge
About the weather, paths and gravel.
Under-foot's no way to travel.
Without the status of a worn-out runner,
To be a thong's a real bummer,
But flip-flop-flip, we flop along,
And flip-flop, sing our thin thong song.
Nothing else IS so much soul.
To last one season - our only goal.
Still you can't hide THE BOMB in the heel of a thong!
Big deal, you say. Yes, you're not wrong,
But flip-flop-flip, we flop along,
And flip-flop, sing our thin thong song
Til flip-flop-floooops!, we're flupped and gone,
Still singing our flip-flopping thin thong song.
Bridh Hancock