My last pair of boots, sit by the back door,
Faded yellow and black, via asphalt and straw.
They sprawl where their thrown, spread-eagled with socks,
The steel-toe caps are showing, through all the hard knocks.
I've worn out dozens of boots, by the score,
But these are my last, I won't need anymore.
Grafted all my life, sweated and bled,
Wrote a heart-wrenching poem, in a felt-tip of red,
On the back of a letter, from the Hospital, to my lad,
Just a change of appointment, addressed to me, his Dad.
But the words are unreadable, I can only guess at a few,
It was probably a masterpiece , though I haven't a clue.
Written through frustration, written through tears,
At Three in the morning, after too many beers,
About a change of career, getting a worthwhile job,
There must be an easier way, than to work like a dog.
Staying inside in the winter, not out in the fields,
Digging trenches and footings and dying on shields.
Dressing up smartly, using brain not just brawn,
Rising at noon, instead of teeth-chattering dawn.
But I forgot why I wrote it, the mind has many routes,
So I've just been out to buy, a new pair of boots. . . .
We have all probably written a great poem, which made sense
at the time, but when you come back to it, it seems gibberish.
All I had was the title and the first six lines, for the rest of it,
the pen had almost run out, so I couldnt understand it