Three pairs of boots, three legacies, three different lives,
Their fates all determined by the same old heartless crime,
One pitiful man discards his future, following in the footsteps of another,
Generations torn apart, a father, a son, a brother,
What is the meaning of war, I wonder?
Take, Jim, for example, his boots placed neatly on the left,
His innocent, ambitious youth falling victim to a betraying theft,
He was forced to conscript to satisfy his parents’ pride,
And how proud they were to boast about their heroic son who died,
As he struggled, manning the big guns in the big boots on the front line.
And, of course, Jack, who had signed up aspiringly, with all guns blazing,
To escape the trouble of the young family he had been raising,
A pair of worn, tattered boots, signalling work well done,
But also the irresponsible father and uncaring husband he had become,
A promising life wasted, choosing a path of solitude and rum.
And Joe, a brave lad, many shots had he fired,
His country and duty he had endlessly admired,
From the lower class, his family strived to secure their honour,
His fellow enlisted companions often made him ponder,
The brutal wound of losing his brother could only make him stronger.
When you see these boots, think of the innocent lives snatched by burglars,
Could this hurricane of destruction be likened to murder?
Or is war an attraction for men to follow in the footsteps of another?
Generations torn apart by grief, a daughter, a sister, a mother,
Is this harsh, insensitive game meaningless, I wonder?