RELAYS

To relay the message about the baton, Shirl picks up the phone giving the receiver wire a twirl.
Steamed up, the chiropodist made her toes curl.
‘A sauna,’ said Shauna, was unlikely to straighten things out. ‘But no doubt you’ll give it a whirl!’
‘Hello, Tommy Greenears here,’ Tommy picks up the phone.
‘Hiya, Tommy, it’s Shirley, dear.’ She says as he starts to groan.
Had he upset her putting his foot in it with the chiropodist?
He sighs relieved when, without sounding peeved, she talks about a stick for guiding musicians.
The orchestrated responses of ponces pounce on ounces of his grey matter as they continue to natter.
The patter of little feet passing the premises of dodgy chiropodists provide percussion in the mental soundtrack of the mind affected by concussion—
The result of a blow to the head with a telephone receiver wielded by a malicious deceiver, who’d lied about the results of a relay race that actually had been tied.
The draw having been denied, a line was drawn under the deception by the mastermind of its conception.
Smugly, the liar circulated a flier coupling the false results with ads for dubious foot care, which results—for Shirl—in a scare.
Shirl’s girls inherit mistrust for pedicures and seduce reflexologists and the like, so as to break their hearts and, with those called Mike, impale their feet on a metal spike.
Systematic and cruel, Shirl’s daughters make foot fetishists drool.
Taunting foot masseurs, they play the fool—serving revenge cold, they are both hard and cool.
Getting loudmouths to put a sock in it by putting lead in a sock, for use as a coshing tool, they indirectly and vicariously vent Shirl’s spleen.
Washing their hands of them, former friends—horrified by their acts, so mean—keep clean by steering clear.
Everyone senses about them something that’s queer.
Except for their hapless victims—heel, sole and toe specialists whose special lists list specialties special teas spilled over and stained.