once owned by Byron with faded
soles born in exotic Morocco.
His boatman recalled them worn
at a house in sun-kissed Kapsalis,
this poet and lover of great renown
but no enemy weapon struck him down
for though he led an army to aid the Greeks
in their eternal fight against the Turks
fell to a fever, the leeches
unaware of the famous blood they sucked.
I picture Byron with now priceless slippers
despite a club-foot an imposing sight
staring at the stars of an Aegean night.