Those rocks roughed of feet by the walking man,
Lie, wrought with sorrow though they shan’t feel.
So, shall I take their grimaces upon that lashing?
That slashing of boot upon earths beloved root?
It is not for I to bare, to let tears sing a gentle reel
Am I not of greater worth?
This badge I wear of pity for the stone I ban
Cries of pride in the colours of summer.
For I am the walking man.