Feathered daps in the street,
Flutter on mercurial feet.
Miss V spurns this vogue,
A step ahead: the golden brogue!
Wings to left, brogues to right,
The shoe truce has gone to shite!
It’s getting tense, a ruckus brewing,
Fashionistas: jeering, booing.
V squares up, returns to roots:
“Fuck you and your floating boots!”
Coupled with gold sombrero,
Our Miss V’s a superhero.
A battle plan is quickly hatched,
And booty wings are fast despatched.
Feet apart and without fear,
V dominates the couture sphere.
She warns models: “Don’t piss about!”
They cower from her catwalk clout.
Even Campbell, stroppy bint,
Fears lampooning in screen print.
But it’s OK, no need to hate her,
Miss V’s a nice dictator.
Doling out fab fashion tips,
Cat walking, shaking hips.
Riding slow in a velvet roller,
Sipping rum and sniffing cola.
Holding court in leather and zips,
Queen of the style apocalypse!
