Photo by Karolina Grabowska on


Where do all my socks go
When a fresh set can’t be sourced ?
My pairs may start out married,
But they always end divorced –
Woollen-millers, stocking-fillers,
Full-of-holes or reinforced,
Longs and shorts and blacks and creams –
Like-and-like repel, it seems.
Many lonely-socks are sulking
Limp and curled-up on their tod –
Unloved, unworn, and dresser-skulking,
Each one well-and-truly odd.

Where do all my socks go ?
Onto other people’s feet ?
Too long in drawers they’ve tarried
Now they’re keen to up-and-meet –
They’re soc-hopping, garter-dropping, –
Long-legged jeans keep them discreet.
Sock it to ’em, just for kicks,
The silk, bamboo and cotton-mix.
Whenever mismatched-socks are strutting,
Are they going on a date ?
And when they’re balled-up, are they rutting,
Knitting booties with their mate ?

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