Shaggy Legs
One stocking, two stocking, three stocking, four,
All hanging on the chimney-breast, drying from the hoar
In the last of the embers of the evening’s sycamore –
While their would-be wearers are upstairs a-snore.
One stripy, one chequey, one polka-dot,
And one of them chunky with a Celtic knot.
Here and there are patches, where the wool is shot,
To keep their feet safe from the Winter as they trot.
One mini, two midi, one bigger skin,
Though all of them kiddie-sized, toe-tip to shin.
Yet looking rather empty here with no legs within,
Are four half-pairs – but where are their kin ?
One two three and a fourth is the score,
Though I wonder why they hung-up the footwear they wore ?
Placed by the fire where no-one can ignore
Are one stocking, two stocking, three stocking, four.
Rhyming Couplets 