My tenure as a staff writer at GQ back in the ’90s took a fatal hit when I was assigned to do a short piece about John Lobb, the storied British shoemaking firm. Reeling from boredom at the prose I was producing, I switched to verse. This was published to much grumbling from the editor-in-chief. It was one of our last conversations.
Oh for a muse
Of leather, of shoes
To sing of a farm boy who rose —
Of John Lobb, a Victorian craftsman we glory in
Still, as the following shows…
He was just out of school
When a fall from a mule
Left young Lobb barely able to hobble
A blow this severe
Might have nipped his career
But the boy was determined to cobble.
His farming left undone
He set out for London
A lad with a limp and a quest.
But shoemakers chided
His gall and derided
His dreams of becoming the best.
So when newspapers told
Of a rush for gold
In the land of the kangaroo,
And hordes left for Australia
In mining regalia
John Lobb thought he’d try his luck too.
He found thieves, he found cholera.
Gold? Not a dollar
As prospector Lobb was a flop
But near Sydney he saw
Feet in rags, rubbed raw
So he opened a bootmaker’s shop.
Those boots! What a hit!
They were sturdy, they fit.
He made them in rapid succession
With a hollow heel
Where a man could conceal
His booty (if that’s the expression).
And we see him now
Standing proud at the prow
As homeward at last he sails
With a sizable stash
Of nuggets and cash
And dress boots for the Prince of Wales.
With this royal warrant
He soon had a torrent
Of London’s elite to accouter.
For a century plus
They’ve been coming and thus
Have made Lobb’s the world’s most renowned booter.
So come in to be shod:
You’ll be met by a squad
Of the best in affaires des pieds.
First step: models, or “lasts,”
Like wooden casts
Of each foot. (Do yours differ? They may.)
Then one expert picks leather,
One sews it together,
Yet another examines the whole….
At last comes the day
When you wear them away
And take that inaugural stroll.
What a feeling of pep,
What a spring in your step —
These shoes practically teach you to dance.
And now down the street
Comes a drumming of feet
In rhythmic retreat and advance.
They’re Lobb customers who
Are welcoming you
To their brotherhood large but classy:
Here come Bela Lugosi,
Lord Douglas, called “Bosie,”
Sinatra, Caruso and Massey,
Cecil Beaton (photog.),
Balanchine (choreog.),
Many other great men in their time.
Mountain climbers and writers
And lovers and fighters
All famous — but none of them rhyme.
Sweeping off like the tide
Altogether you stride
While those craftsmen continue to cobble.
Shoddy workmanship, waste,
The erosion of taste —
If one firm can combat all that, Lobb’ll.
