Black boots! Black boots!
Three thousands a pair.

Never grow old,
Gold, they never fold.

They seek the air, the earth,
The dawn and the dusk.

They walk, they talk,
They roll and some rock.

Descendents of super tramps,
We carry with pride.

For the wild they crave
And The dust they seek,
Wear and tear they eat on repeat.

For the feets of desire,
They fly them to the sky.

For the men of heart.
For the men of stone.

Their musk must make little crocs and sneakers-
Feel like little sons of bitches.
One slow kick takes two balls
Back to their ditches.