Dave Bonta's poem takes a humble household object and has fun with it. The first stanza redefines the shoehorn: it isn't really for the shoe but for the foot, a little spoon-shaped slide that helps the two get along. Calling it a "social lubricant" makes the shoe and foot sound like awkward guests at a party. Then the speaker nods at the "Freudian interpretation," a wink that invites us to hear something cheekier in the image without spelling it out.
The second stanza swaps to boots and turns teasing. People who "toot their own horns" are boastful, and the bootstraps they brag about pulling themselves up by become a joke about "self-made men" who rise "to their own occasion." The speaker seems amused and a little skeptical of that self-congratulation.
The mood is light, playful, and mildly mocking. The poem runs on wordplay and sly asides, treating a small object as a way to poke at big egos.