By Helena McLachlan & Amon Carter, 02 July 2023
To the tune of The Bunkhouse Orchestras’ Maid of Argenta
Resuscitated by Helena McLachlan and Amon Carter
Unwilling and Man-handled Creative Muses: Nicholas Jones, Meike Pummer & Rowan Powell
Best sung with an Arkansaurian twang.
As I was a tramping the remotest ranges,
I spied in the distance some scant’ly clad strangers,
As we crossed paths we did swap some odd gazes,
For they were in trail running shoes.
I always wear boots when the mountains I wander,
But seeing those sillies sure did make me ponder,
How do they get up them hills way out yonder,
With no grip or ankle support?
It had not been long ‘for we did ford a river,
The water rolled off me while they’re doomed to shiver,
I laughed to myself as they slid hither, thither,
I’ll never wear trail running shoes.
I dreamt the whole night of my fire warmed booties,
But in the cold morn’ I saw they’d gone scooties,
I’ve nothing to put on my poor calloused tootsies,
Except for those damn trail shoes.
With snow on the ground I’s in no place to r’fuse,
I rolled and i fell in my ridic’lous new shoes,
I’d only my dignity, heels and toes to lose,
Better tin cans than trail running shoes.
At the next hut I greet those runners like brothers,
We’d all slipped and fell in the footwear of others,
With haste we swapped back and embraced shoes like mothers’d,
Let’s stick to our own arch support.
The tralpinists told me they’d envied my tough boots,
But their ankles could not lift their feet over rought roots,
Their feet had stayed dry but were now covered in scuffed bits,
Better wear barrels than boots.
If ever I see runners tramping the ranges,
I give ‘em their space but warn ‘em of the dangers,
Mesh and wire for some but boots do suit all ages,
Each their own, we will be right as rain.