Schmoo's Slippers (no, that's not a euphemism)

Recapturing a friendship,
Is like finding your old slippers,
And when you find them,
They are usually right under your nose.
And you're all 'how did I ever live without these slippers?!
Because they're comfy,
They're warm,
They fit.
And despite yourself,
You are crazy about these slippers.
They are 'I can conquer the world' slippers.
Ok, my metaphor's a bit crap.
Who compares their best friend to slippers?
Me, apparently.
Ok, I'll try it a bit differently,
In a way only my slippers,
Shit, I mean my best friend,
Can only understand.
My slippers are made
Of a chrome that originates,
From a beautiful part of Italy.
Venice. My slippers,
Are to me,
Venetian Chrome slippers.
Not a lot of you,
Will understand the significance.
I dunno, maybe you will.
But the sort of person,
Whose Latin name completely describes,
Her personality,
Her life,
Will realise this is All For Her.
And Schmoo is once again alive.
And has dusted off her old slippers,
Made of chrome in Venice.
And has just made a poem
Out of a bloody pair of slippers,
And European metal.
That's what slippers can do to Schmoo.