SOCKer
This daily cycle I repeat
and churn out jobs as housework knocks
But there's a task that's incomplete
I can't pair up the bloody socks
There's often nothing for our feet
the drawers are bare of any stocks
That basket full ain't so discreet
I must pair up some bloody socks
Be good if they were obsolete
but they just mount in furry flocks
I feel as though I can't compete
and give up on the bloody socks
A massive pile I always greet
they're not in singles just like jocks
Some mother/wife pre-requisite
that I pair up these bloody socks
I'll often bail, admit defeat
for I can't even hang me frocks
I'm slack, they're not and won't retreat
because they're pairs of bloody socks
These fur-lined foot gloves have me beat
Unmatched and odd as ticks are tocks
There's just no chance that they'll deplete
guess I'll pair up the bloody socks...
*sigh*
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Well...
I've done the lot, piled high and neat
like cotton-pickin' building blocks
Hoo-bloody ray, the feeling sweet
and what a freakin' marvey treat
I saw it through, the job's complete
I've paired up all those bloody socks!
(C)
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Author Notes
Based loosely on the Kyrielle form but I've tampered with the refrain and the last stanza
is irregular length and rhyme.
This is ALL true except the very last stanza. There are always at least 12 or more odd socks left.
Even after a pair up blitz.
I WILL be haunted forever bloody more by a swirling vortex of odd and unpaired up socks.
For the record this is my THIRD sock poem. Disturbing, I know.
Thanks for reading...
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