Went to a funeral the other day, the untied boot girl passed away.
She dared to stride, boots open wide, roaming about the town,
trailing her golden rawhide laces all over the ground.
People let her know, “Hon, your shoes are untied.”
“I know, but I don’t have time.”
She’d laughingly reply as she rushed by,
(Twas the very reason that she died.)
And when she fell, it weren’t no surprise.
“Shoot,” we all said, cause we’d always surmised,
“I knew she was gonna take a fall, didn’t you guys?”
“Don’t care if you don’t, have a nice day,
cause if you trip, it’s you who will pay.”
We’d mumble those words, as she passed by,
can’t say we hadn’t tried, wasn’t our fault
when the untied boot girl died.
Weren’t men, drugs or booze that finally took her down,
just some dumb ‘ol rawhide laces, trailing on the ground.
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