Ode to a Foot Masseuse

This little bit of doggerel should be out in the magazine in a day or two, if it isn't out already.

Goddammit, now I have to come up with another idea and write something before next Tuesday. Maybe I should go get a foot massage.

Ode to a Foot Masseuse

They call it "reflexology," and with brief apology,

I confess I only learned the word quite recently.

What they call it, I don't care: 'round these parts, it's something rare—

A massage where neither party acts indecently.

Here in China, as you know, from Heilongjiang down to Guangzhou,

Or the Lhasa Valley's Himalayan ice,

It's hard to find a town where you can't get your feet rubbed down,

And enjoy it at a bargain-basement price.

It's a pleasure so sublime it really ought to be a crime

But I'm awfully glad the foot-rub biz is legal.
When you're seated in your chair, the feeling's just beyond compare:

I think the word I'm looking for is "regal."

They're from Henan or Anhui—not from Zhengzhou or Hefei*

But from little county towns you've never heard of

These friendly country lasses from the agronomic classes

Off'ring service that your feet can be assured of.

When those foreign guests come calling and you've spent the day Great Walling,

Or strolling Kunming Lake at Summer Palace,

Nothing's better for the feet—a major podiatric treat

That keeps those tender heels from going callous.

Corns and bunions she'll endure, toe-jam smelling like manure

Athlete's foot, or even fouler forms of fungus

But she won't so much as sigh, and it costs but 80 kuai,

That is why, my friend, my gratitude's humongous.

There's a fascinating chart, describing how each body part

Is linked to certain sections of your feet

For your spleen or for your gonads, or your Grand Primordial Monads

There's a spot to increase qi or quell the heat.

Soak your trotters in the tub, as you ready for the rub

And accept that this is going to hurt at first

There's no pleasure without pain, her ministrations will make plain

And you'll praise the fingers which, just now, you cursed.

It's a universal fate, that when guys begin to date,

They'll play the back-rub card at their first chance.

It's a hackneyed first-date ruse, and to women, this ain't news:

The masseur vamooses once inside your pants.

But our dour and faithful lass will prove she's of a better class

And your tired 'taters are the benefactors

She'll go that extra mile, and she'll do it with a smile,

And she's free of such crass motivating factors.

It's impossible to capture how from pain you come to rapture

As she kneads those knuckles up and down your sole,

I'm not waxing metaphoric when I say that it's euphoric

When the angel breaks you down, and makes you whole.

* Zhengzhou and Hefei are the provincial capitals of Henan and Anhui, respectively

Comments

[Brendan]

I still think that the verse beginning "A really good masseuse will never trade on her caboose" should've gone in there.

[kaiserkuo]

Yes, but that's only because you're hell-bent on popularizing the word "caboose." Not that it's an ignoble aspiration. I wish you well, and promise to use the word instead of the crass "ass" whenever possible. Still, I get points for "vamoose" right?

[Brendan]

"Vamoose" is good, but you'd get Big Ups for using "skedaddle," "take a powder," or "hoof it."

Also, I like the "caboose" line because it leads into "The places lit in neon are where you get your bi on," unprintable though it may be.