Dead Men's Shoes

They're leather cracked and creaky, but they'll go the extra mile,
They were worn by dapper Johnnies and vaguely were in style,
They were taken by morticians and sold in gambling halls,
And exchanged for poker wagers at lowly shoe-shine stalls.

Their soles are deep indented by restless feet long gone,
There's a heel that's slightly dented where a cane was leaned upon,
Where once they graced the Sunday Kirk they now suit the garden shed,
And the ghosts of previous winters are a chorus of the dead.

And they whisper their sweet elegies in the scented evening air,
Your time, like ours, is finite, but these shoes will still be there.