The tattered well-neat leather and its buckles’ faded brass,
The heel that kept the heathen down to dominate his class,
Were left to mold and blight where spirits still accuse,
But we slipped past the watchman wearing old colonial shoes.
We heard our glory calling, and we could not refuse,
We wanted to walk so proudly in old colonial shoes.
The watchman was so sleepy, and his lantern burned so low,
So, we cooed a feigned allegiance, and then he let us go;
Fattened by indulgence, his preference was to snooze,
He might have dreamt his feet were snug in old colonial shoes.
If he should wake we were prepared to flatter and amuse—
Were we not entitled to wear those old colonial shoes?
When liberty and equity were lifted up in light,
We bowed our heads so reverently, our cunning out of sight;
And when shalom came knocking, we were free to choose,
We thought about all the things we had, and all that we would lose,
The pious reached for Jesus, and the beggar sang the blues,
But we were neat and righteous there in old colonial shoes.
We dream ourselves anointed, to own the sky and street,
That all between must prostrate to the buckles on our feet;
Dare not tell ambition that he must self-recuse
We need that mask of progress while conspiring to misuse;
Hide we now the obvious from hitting national news,
That we are getting fitted here for old colonial shoes.
