It's the squeak of my winter boots,
As i walk down the hall it radiates,
Its high pitch annoys the many.
But rather squeaky than soggy.
It's the awkward puffy appearance,
That stands out against the sneakers,
Stand against the ‘not yet’ of november.
But rather warm feet than small feet.
Because what does it matter,
Do my feet bother you?
As much as mine would be wet?
As much as mine would be cold?
I think if your feet were,
It'd be much more of a bother to you,
And I'd offer you a pair of winter boots.