I was quietly browsing in the emporium known as Clarks,
They have branches up in Aberdeen as well as Bucks and Berks,
When all of a jolly sudden, upon a Roman sandal,
I found a tatty little note: I’m trapped. Please help. Signed Randle.
I turned the paper over and in stilted print it read,
I’m a prisoner in this shoe factory, I’m going off my head,
I hate the smell of leather and I can’t stand cobblers’ glue,
Please come and save me, stranger, I don’t know what to do.
So I rang up customer service, said, now look here chums,
This really isn’t cricket, I’ll have to tell your mums,
But they immediately relented, said, Randle will go free,
And now he lives in Notting Hill, and it’s all thanks to me
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