A Sock's Life

I know a young lady who plays a mean trumpet,
A prim, proper girl who is far from a frump-et;
These two characteristics just lately collided
In what should make only a launderer excited,
Which our high-minded bugle-er babe put this way:
“…The most interesting thing that befell me today…”
Which was: On her way out of the band room discovering
A lone, dirty sock at the entryway hovering.

Her keen sense of fashion immediately told her
This dowdy foot-ware was late ’90s or older.
She’d recognize outmoded clothes if she saw some –
Like I recognized sarcasm when she said, “awesome.” ;P
Thus I felt that I had to chime in and defend
This disconsolate sock who seemed hadn’t a friend,
And was kicked about, stepped on, and then left for dead;
So I pulled myself up by my sock-straps and said,

“Don't pick on that sock that was found in the doorway;
Perhaps it was resting from cleaning the floorway.
It prob’ly flopped down where it mopped up the wet
From the feet of the girl who was playing cornet.
You wouldn't deny this good, hardworking hose
A well-deserved break just to rest it's poor toes
And listen to beautiful music, now would you?
And it might like a bath...could you give it one? Could you?”

To which she replied, “Oh, my dear friend, I would,
But this sock has been worn much more long than it should –
Yes, not only in days, but in length of its stretch;
It’s deformed, and de stench would about make me retch.
It’s not that I can’t understand just how much it
Needs laundering – but that would require me to touch it.”
I, seeing it likely not easy to reach her,
Nonetheless, with these words, did my best to beseech her:

“The sock in the doorway is shaking in fear,
The sock in the doorway knows Laundry is near.
It never has seen the inside of a washer –
That twister and tosser, that squisher and squasher,
That scary machine with detergent suds swollen,
A Neverland hiding Lost Socks it has stolen –
No wonder this sock sits there trembling with fear!
It thinks its “reward” is that its end is near!

“All that it needs is for you to come 'round it,
And say to it gently you're glad that you found it,
And see that it’s sad and forlorn and dejected,
And all of its most basic needs are neglected,
But now you will see that it's treated first-rate –
And say! – in that washer, it may find a mate!
And then into drawers made of cedar and spruce,
They'll be left and forgotten till they reproduce...

“Making new little socks at the rate of a rabbit,
Till someone should happen to reach in to grab it –
Emerging with argyles and wools and athletics
(Now, don't expect ME to explain the genetics),
And leaving our dear little sock safely hidden
Way down in the drawer where he'll never be bidden
To dust a piano or clean up a floorway –
And never again sit alone in a doorway...”

And that’s how a lassie who toots on a horn,
With an eye for the look of all things that are worn,
Can remove the indignity, grime, and the strife –
And make a big difference – in one small Sock’s Life.

                                                   —Dr. Socks

                                                                                    © 2011