When they pick through the rubble, of another unexplained crash, 
They won't know I was a writer, or that I listened to The Clash,
They'll gather up what remains, and dust off all the ash,
And they will identify me by my shoes. 

Everything I'd ever done, and all that was left to do,
That brilliant unfinished novel, or that masterpiece I drew,
All those battles won and lost- they wouldn't have a clue,
They will just identify me by my shoes. 

Every so often I think, of what it really means to lose,
I consider loss and longing, and what I can and cannot choose,
And how when the end comes, and it's time to clear the dues,
The only thing that will matter, is the colour of my shoes.