A pair of well used hiking boots
Rest beside an open doorway
Their leather no longer stiff
As the first day they were applied
A couple holes decorate one
Stains of white paint splatters on both
And a faint whiff of sweat lingers
From each hike, brisk walk, and paint job
That has provided them with use
After years of being beaten
By cement and the burdened feet
Of the morbidly obese man
Who chooses to utilize them
They have developed character
That not enough people strive for
And too many, through foolishness
And with fervor, claim to possess
What kind of a country is this?
This poem has not been translated into any other language yet.
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