Thar ain't much poetry, that's a fact, 
In a pa'r o' worn out shoes, 
But I've seen truck a-goin' that lacked, 
As much of soul or muse, 
I've got a shoe, 'bout big's my thumb, 
All gone at the heel an' toe, 
That makes my poor old heart-strings thrum, 
To the tune of "Long ago". 

It's the shoe of a little baby boy, 
Who was two or three worlds to me, 
He come and he went, and took all the joy, 
That ever I reckon to see, 
The mother that bore him went along, 
And it broke my heart in two, 
Sometimes I hear her lullaby song, 
When I'm holdin' that little shoe. 

And I hear the patter of wee, small feet, 
That fitted it when it was new, 
But all that's left is the mem'ry sweet, 
And the little worn out shoe, 
Thar ain't no poetry much in this, 
But I think I've got the clue, 
To a road that leads to a mite of bliss, 
If I follow this baby shoe.