Oak Street Bootmakers Trench Boot

I put in my PTO and stuffed my boots inside a box, and flew and drove and took a boat and pulled up to a dock. My friends at work, the whiskey-makers, labored on while wishing they could join me up in Canada, on the water, fishing. BUT: no pike inside my net that week, no stories to be told, though i didnt return empty handed; I came back with a cold. Sure, maybe I was thwarted in pursuit of monster fish, but if I didnt blame the boots I wore, I’d surely be remiss. they blistered and they burned, with laces, leather, stiff. my boat legs were all wonky, id cast and reel and whiff. And when i got back to New York, boots broken in and limber, the distillery was waiting, all the spirits sealed in timber. My boots, though without any steel, are sturdy as can be, and while they lost some color, they kept my feet 3D as tanks dropped fast and barrels rolled and forklifts zoomed on by, while pigeons made their way inside for refuge from the sky. The booze we make is fancy, on a shelf too high to touch, so in those frigid winter months, my discount came in clutch. But now the sun sets later and the world begins to thaw, and im racking up vacation time, afforded me by law. So I walk up to the warehouse and I buzz in with my fob, and I tie up all my laces and i get right to my job: I take barrels off of pallets, put the pallets in a stack, then I get the pallets down and put the barrels back. Though I’m planning to go fishing soon, even if I must malinger Ill wear my boots, now tattered, as i run line under finger, And now, with leather more agreeable and soles worn in quite bruskly, they won’t be stomping all too much, won’t scare away my musky.