My Old Muddy Boots

I’m a man with no roots,
I am he, who faithfully wears these muddy old boots

How can I let you go
when you’ve carried me atop Kosciusko
and in the winter bleak,
all over Mount Stirling’s frosty peak,
heel compressing the snow.
It seems cruel to now toss you out so.

Together we've explored the majestic Drakensburg,
and in Mosi-O-Tanya, surveyed the savage herd.
In Vietnam, you’ve carried me through Ho Chi Minh’s chaos
and across the serene foothills of luscious Laos,
through the streets of Hoi An
and the throng of Da Nang,

Foot in boot, we’ve kicked aside the stones of the Kalahari,
and we have gone for a stroll in downtown Nairobi.
In Masvingo, we meandered about in the ruins of Great Zimbabwe,
and how you squeaked on the dark volcanic sands of Bali
Oh my boots so old and so dear,
do you remember when I christened you with beer
to bless my trip to Zanzibar
or as I set a course to a new different star.

And while you’re ten years old
and the damp and cold
now creep into my toes
there’s no way I’m saying “out youse goes”,
to the dear old muddy boots
of this man with no roots.