Morning war, ready
Threw the door, ready
Cleaning up aisles
Organizing ancient smiles
Shuffling dust, recycling rust
Saving just and important musts
while folding some old and brand new
Why step on old soles to get through the day?
Mismatched feet don’t mean a thing
Wouldn’t waste your mind on those colors
There must be something else that matters
Are we in different days?
How do you see this in that way?
Thought they brought a little color
to an otherwise too sunny plain.
On the bus, ready
Look at us, ready
I’ll never care, so I’ll never know
why people care what covers toes.
You never can tell when paths may meet
and who’s got time to coordinate feet?