I wear a poor man's shoes, No shine, no wax, no Italian leather,

But I walk with Kings.

My bank, and my wealth are tallied in the sum of these comfortable toe crammed prisons.

 to run, and rest in wild fields of clover,

In sleeping fields of winter wheat,

In yellow towers of August corn.

I am the subject,

Yet I walk with Kings.

I wear a poor mans shoes,

They are my treasures.

My over the rainbow realizations,

That the understanding is...

"The shoes do not make the man,"

But merely convey him to his ultimate destination.

No matter the lace, or the heel, the cut of the toe...

I wear a poor man's shoes,

But I walk with Kings