Shiny patent leather

Kept clean every week

Tucked neatly under pews. 

Sometimes I forget to take them off and play rough with the boys. 

Momma comes hollerin' 

Then wipes 'em off

So they will be clean on Sundays.

 

These are my burying shoes,

Red clay caked on top.

Too worn if you ask me,

But Papa died Sunday

And it rained all through the day

Sliding through the mud to get him in the ground. 

Got my shoes all dirty.

 

These are my funeral shoes,

Dull, black, and boring.

Dare not reflect my sullen face

Posed perfectly in prayer. 

Learned best from momma

At mealtimes and Sundays front row.

Should feel different today,

But the same dirge drums on,

Hidden behind a hymnal.