My gumboots, hole-y and old,
sit in the shed freezing and cold.
The mud on the boot is crusty and crummy
and the holes in soles are yucky and scummy.
My old gumboots have never squawked,
they have never shouted and never talked
I’ve never seen them socialise
with the pretty gumboots that are nearby.
But if my gumboots even talked
or shouted or squawked, those boots of mine
we’d be the best of buds.
I would take them everywhere, North or South,
to the pool and in the house.
We would go to places hot and cold
but if those gumboots really could talk,
they would shout and they would squawk
with a colourful aroma.
But I can assure you, you will never
ever see them in the dump.