My boots and I stay together like glue,
six eyed Doc Martens bought in 1992.
We've seen hard times, also some fun,
together we've accomplished all that can be done.
In 10th grade while fucking an upperclassman,
these boots on her sheets, provided more traction.
Polished shiny at times or caked in Lollapalooza mud,
covered in Crash Worship crap and junkie's blood.
They've helped with walking and swimming with speed,
treaded waters in the Guadelupe River and the North Sea.
Conquered Amsterdam cobblestone while I was tokin,
seen the only girl I've loved and my heart broken.
Watched my judgement fail, the wrong people I trusted,
my feet felt great that night I got busted.
Covered in vomit on nights I've had too much,
stayed on my left foot while I used a crutch.
Now on their last days, completely worth the money I paid,
they might never be used, but never thrown away.

Maybe I should have called this "Ode to my Boots," or maybe I shouldn't have taken the time to write this. But last night the hole in the sole got too big, so I have to retire them. Thanks for the memories boots.

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