Here's a thought or two for you
and it's not that I am bitter
but when around and about a look I took
it ground me down to see such litter
tourists travelers neighbours too
please let me remind
think what you do I beg of you
and only footprints leave behind
but when it comes to living things
if the foot were in the other boot
would you like being polished off
therefore only photos shoot
'England is a nation of shopkeepers'
was never said by Bonaparte
but it was those self-same tradesmen
who kicked Napoleon’s ****
and
when at Waterloo they met
as he won the day
to give it a positive spin
one may only say,
"Wellington put the boot in!"
On Tuesday night, you could hear music playing
old country songs, I knew right from the start
I listened to, all the words they were saying
with stories of an aching, breaking heart
I never knew, there were boot scootin’ angels
all dressed in their mid-western, clothes and styles
in that old bar, filled with root-tootin’ angels
no prairie for at least, 4,000 miles
On Tuesday night, when I heard music playing
old country songs, I knew from long ago
I sang along, to the words they were saying
and felt I’d stepped into, a rodeo
That Mary-Lou, was a boot scootin’ angel
all dressed in her mid-western, clothes and style
she was the queen, of those root-tootin’ angels
with her Stetson hat and Texan smile.
The boot is passed around -
You’ve seen it
walking into buildings
Don’t steal it
You don’t want it
Who wants the boot
…say boooooo
Contraption traps
my leg, ankle, foot
The pressure
infused
Straps look better
on my sandals
Release…release…release
then the feet recline -
as they tool around
grinding, spreading
cracking my smile
can’t even frown
moving tongue
left, left, left
don’t want to bite it
heard the bloody stories
made it out the door
put the boot on
reclining
wining
in a good way
staying cool for
three or four
weeks
I jest:
They gave me the boot
holidays should be fine
if I walk the walk
Do you ever
really, really, really
find peace in there
inside your head
as it bobs up and down
to the rhythmic beat
of the dead man’s boot
and your eyes
easy-open
take a lazy sweep
to and fro across the horizon
giving harmony and texture
to the rhythmic beat
of the dead man’s boot
making all that you hear
and all that you see
too, too real
and you know
really, really know
way down deep
that truth only matters
when truth is all you’ve got
and you know
really, really know
way down deep
that that really is
all that you’ve got
‘cause your eyes are easy-open
and your head is a-bobbing
to the rhythmic beat
of the dead man’s boot.
i am a boot painter she announced when she was eight
her mother thought this was hilarious
she probably is, said her grandmother
an artist always recognizes another artist
and she did
and guess what she grew up to paint?
Boots.
whole game had to boot
ran away with all the loot
would think he was cute
grandpa’s boot went missing on a Tuesday night
It’s weird he told every relative in sight
I know I left it right here by the door
Some rolled their eyes, others looked on the floor
I knew the faeries had taken it, but did not tell him.
My elf friend named pal had it clutched next to his chin.
I watched them scurry it out at midnight, tis true.
But I kept a confidence for my friends Bunny and Boo.
Bunny and Boo are the elves who live in faerie fey.
They needed a house, I mean, one, right away.
Their baby was coming, and they needed this boot.
I pretended to aid grandpa and said “well, now, shoot!”
Now Laying In Boot Hill Under Frozen Ground
Tony was a wicked dude carried a thirty-eight
Always raced his fast cars always cheated Fate
Carried a straight razor in his left shoe
Things that would be daring, he was ready to do
Afraid he would cut his own throat, wore a beard
But damn sure was nothing else, man never was skeered
Fought in the roughest bars that were around
Beat living hell out of every bully he ever found
Yes, he was still alive at age thirty nine
And ready to tackle any that crossed the line
Do not ask about his last fighting night aiive
Shot by a ten year old kid, took his last dive.
Yes sir, he was easily toughest dude around.
Now laying in boot hill under frozen ground.
Robert J. Lindley, April 2nd, 1970
Note. ----- Age 16, no edits.
At the wharf I donned the Wellington boots
Of the fisher deceased, to trace my roots
And see and feel what it was like at sea
For my uncle a fishing devotee.
The clammy boots were three sizes too large.
I kidded myself that I could take charge,
And fill the boots with fishers' gait and guts
Aware the concept was deluded, nuts.
I felt the lure of expectation loom
As the trawler 'Gen' breached to break dawn's gloom
I embraced the hope of a bumper haul
Of keeper fish, not tiddlers, way too small.
I felt the surge of waves tug at the boots,
Like tentacles dragging against the roots
Which held my soles fast on the slimy deck.
The sea incessant for another wreck.
I felt fish guts, innards, blood and gore,
Slather on boots as fish were brought ashore,
And unloaded in bins brimful with ice.
At days end, bootlegging was hard but nice.
while brushing each boot
he (she) had been a new recruit
looked great in his (her) suit
accurately would shoot
of crop was the fruit
Take your pick of last line.
Boots can be recycled for many things
This one was Daddy’s and it kind of zings
Reminding me of all the days I spent watching him rebuild a car
I tried walking in them when I was four, but did not get very far.
Now my twin sister has his left boot, and I have utilized his right.
I keep paintbrushes in mine, hers I think she keeps out of sight.
There's a guy I know that loots.
He often wears special boots:
Strong leathery ones he'd choose,
His feet in them starts to cruise
To break doors with non-helped feet!
Isn't that alone a feat?
Bruce should like to see rogues do that
"But feet later go flat!"
Means, then, looter can be caught:
From boot shop found straight to court
Never-ending bloodstained boots tossed on top
of the growing mound of vignettes
around so many young men
seeking a name to boast
courageous conquests
facing the best
gunfighters
just to
die
NB: A nod to Robert Hinshaw and his poem ‘A Stroll Through Boot Hill Cemetery’.
double midterm
a sinner complex
you hear train whistles
say to yourself
he’s nervous
cat corked up
in my window
a caboose in my house
boose if you need it
double voyage duplex
many moons ago bad luck
whole bunch of holloween years
to boot
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