I'm writing this in happy heart today. Before the happiness gets up, and slowly drifts away. As happiness makes life, and love so complete. And takes the itching, away from the feet. These old feet of mine, that often yearn to roam. When happy _ stand planted, as if they are at home. With no intention at all, to walk a country mile. They somehow seem to know, when my face is carrying a smile. It's only when my heart, begins to run dry. And forces a teardrop, to escape from my eye. These old feet get itchy, as if allergic to the ground. And send a signal up, saying lets not hang around. Somewhere another job, someplace another day. There always was, somehow another way. I've now moved past, finding love in a tobacco tin. I now carry it with me, and draw it from within. So no matter where or when I may roam. These old feet will be happy, and always at home. They'll feel happy and content, in any old shoe. Or walk bare on the earth, or in the cold morning dew.