I see a pair of shoes in a paper I read,
worn by a dead soldier; in another life he could be me,
for he's probably my age; or perhaps even younger,
and in a land torn by strife, I guess he was driven by hunger,
to take up a gun, to deal out someone else's hate,
so come now, tell me more of your concept of fate:
that whilst I sit here in my comfortable bed,
across the world a sandy grave becomes home for that dead
man, wearing shoes not fit for the office, let alone a war
whilst at home between live crosses to Washington and London, I flick for a score,
and its all done without the trouble of leaving my seat...
yet I wonder if it would be different if in those shoes were my feet
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© Justin Crosby
