My feet ain't dainty, my husband said one day.
They are tough and cracked, he went on each day.

"Aren't southern women supposed to be soft?" asked my sweetie,
Running his hands over my scratchy feetie.

I wasn't quite sure.

There are two types of southern women:
the Scarlett O'Hara in Atlanta ones
who are society peaches and cream,
and then there are the Scarlett at Tara after the war
who work hard and go barefoot.
It must be the latter that I seem.

I love to go barefoot and I have big feet.
I love to feel my feet and the grass meet.

Shoes are fine, and I pay my dues,
but nothing beats going sans shoes.

I have cracks in my heels that look like an Alabama ditch
after years of weathering and erosion.
I am constantly slapping foot creams on my feet, which
seem to do little for my foot corrosion.

I have to admit though, they don't bother me a lot
unless they scratch against the sheets and catch,
Or my husband screams when they brush up against his leg,
causing cuts on both of his legs that match.

My feet are a work of art in progress,
They have grown older and changed, it's true,
But they seemed familiar to me, last I looked.
And then, dagblamit, I knew.

I have my mamma's feet.

She has the same time-worn calluses
that I have walked into today
and the same cracks and toughness
that shows her love of walking around in this way.

I don't mind having my mamma's feet.
And I'll have them 'til the grave.
As long as I soak them now and then,
so I won't keep cutting up my poor Dave.