Here Come Those Boots
That was the day.
Down the steps from the airliner they came, polished, gleaming and pointing. Encased in them were the shapely legs of NANCY SINATRA, and by the time they reached ground level the photographers were already putting their elbows in the other feller’s eye. Word having got around that Nancy had arrived in London, loud were the cries of “Come on, Nancy, walk right over me, baby—I want to show your boot marks to my best friends
Serve the fool right. He should have known it was going to hurt.
Nancy took it all in her stride. What a girl. What boots.