(with apologies to Leonard Cohen)
Well my boots were great for the first long walk but at K-sixteen hundred they started to baulk – their soles were spent and their uppers had worn through-yah. But it wasn’t until the beachy strolls that the sand poured in the myriad holes and the bell that tolled was their final Halleluia. They were through-yah. What a poo-yah! What the do now? No Halleluia.
The Swami had some hiking shoes. They’d seen a few K’s but were still good to use. When he offered them to me, all I could say was “Boo-yah!” He got my old thongs – not quite a fair swap – but they really weren’t bad for a humble flip-flop, and I jumped up with a gleeful Halleluia. No more boots, nah. Got some shoes-yah. We’ll go thru-now, Halleluia!
It’s Pemberton now and I’m back on the track and hooning to Warren – the first south-bound shack. I’m walking so fast I think I almost flew there. But the next day out it all goes wrong, they rub and they pinch, they are miles too long. It’s a blistered, cursing, groaning Halleluia. Stupid shoe-yah, how I rue-yah, if I’d knew-yah, would I choose yah?
But that night in a dream, said Swami to me “Get on with it
girl, or a namby you’ll be. It’s just a few blisters, really what’s the hoo-har?” So I hobbled along for the next seven days in a Fixomull-Compeedy-Betadine haze, while those damn shoes broken in with a brazen Halleluia! Halleluia, halleluia, halleluia, halleluia…